Melting Point
by I'm Nova
Summary: For Fall TV Sherlock 2015. Female detective Sherlock Holmes hates her imaginary but necessary male boss, John Watson. Her feelings may change now that someone is accepting that role…
1. Will you be my Watson?

_Disclaimer: I do not own either Sherlock (which belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC crew – Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss *cough Mycroft cough* over all) or Remington Steele (I have no idea who holds the right to that, but some people who could own it – I suspect – are Robert Butler, Micheal Gleason, MTM Enterprises and/or NBC). I do, however, play with their storylines and characters unrepentantly – and of course without profit._

 _A.N. This story will hopefully be updated every Sunday evening (Italian time, so UTC + 1). Weekly updating is going to be a true challenge for me. Also, this is dedicated to my friend Sendai who encouraged me to write this even when I lost all my confidence (I'm struggling with depression since twelve years, so that's a serious issue for me). But now, no more chatting. Here starts the show_

Melting Point

 _Welcome to the Pilot episode!_

Episode 1: "Will you be my Watson?"

"Where is Mr. Watson?" the man – a forty-something, lanky redhead with a little commerce (watches if she wasn't wrong – and she very rarely was) and a STD queried, annoyed. Not that she had revealed her deductions to him yet. She didn't want him to storm away in a huff, like everyone inevitably did.

She hated that question, though. And every single prospective client inevitably posed it first thing. It was expected, reasonable even. It still grated. She couldn't snap as she wanted to, though. Sherlock gave him the standard answer.

"Mr. Watson is on a stakeout relative to another case right now, but he has trained me in the science of deduction and the art of detection. If you tell me your case – and please, do not omit any details – I might be able to help you out until he's free to take a more personal look at your case."

Which would be never. Sherlock wondered if realising that she was going to be the one investigating this client would run away too, or if the promise of a later involvement of 'her boss' – a true detective; a _man_ – would be sufficient to make him stay. It was about half the times that it happened.

Their partnership – so to say – had been born out of necessity, but to be honest she hated John Watson with all her soul. Sometimes, she spent whole hours planning how to kill him. But if she did, she'd be back at the start. A female detective, with everyone believing she couldn't possibly meet the job requirements. How many a prospective client had crudely said, "This is hard work, and you don't have the balls for it, my pretty,"? Too many to keep count.

Would it be better if she'd be born decidedly ugly, she asked herself sometimes. Not that she saw much prettiness in herself as she was – she was too angular, for God's sake, all bones – and that suited her just fine.

"I suppose I could," the client – Mr. Wilson – babbled, "I really do need advice, as my situation is unique and baffling indeed. Well, I suppose not that unique – other people in the league must be as puzzled as I feel. Perhaps did someone else even consult you? That would be most convenient for me."

Sherlock sighed and repressed the instinct to chase away the dimwit. She needed a case. Any case, by this point, or she'd relapse, and everyone would be disappointed (herself too). "I did ask you not to omit any details, please. If you don't inform me of which league you're talking about, how can I answer? I highly doubt it is a sports one, but I'm not a mind reader," she said, as calmly as she could.

"Right, of course, sorry," Wilson stammered, embarrassed. "The red-headed league. Have you heard of it?"

"It hasn't been brought to our agency's attention yet. Tell me, please," the sleuth said. She wanted to be polite, as she wanted –no, needed – not to scare away this client, but she might have snapped to him a bit, despite tacking that half-hearted please at the end of it. God, to get relevant information from this man's rantings was like extracting a tooth to a scared child! He was lucky that she was so desperate for a case, or she would have kicked him out ages ago.

"Sooo… about the league. Now, you see, I hadn't ever heard of it either. Then James ( his last name's Bond, isn't that curious?) – my new help, a very good lad, he's always offering to open, or close, asking if I want to take more time for myself, always ready for anything I need, and above all he's content with half the salary all the other asked – came in with a newspaper and showed me an advert.

The redheaded league searched for people – good position, nice salary, part time job and so on. I might have my shop in a high-end neighbourhood but it's only because it belonged to my family for generations, and we are not so well-off now – and the place is so tiny – all that to say, I'm not doing very well.

So when James prompted me to go, saying, «I'd try myself if I could, but I'm blond, you see. If red heads are a requirement, one with your mane should be their dream. I can take care of the shop while you'd be away,» - well, I was tempted.

To make it short, I went to the address specified, and there had to be…oh, I don't know…at least fifty people. Some of them had clearly dyed their heads, ridiculous. Um, could I have a glass of water? I'm parched."

The detective got one for him, despite being tempted to deny it. Wilson never seemed to get to the damn point – maybe he would if he was without saliva. But she had told him not to omit any details. She couldn't complain about it now.

He drank greedily, and then recounted, "Anyway, I was finally admitted. The league's exponent had a formidable head of red curls, plus moustaches and a short beard. He looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place of whom he reminded me. He _tugged_ on my hair, could you believe me? Said he had to make sure it was not a wig. Some people apparently had no shame.

Anyway, he said I would do and to get there the following day, nine sharp. The work in itself surprised me a bit. Apparently the league wanted to compile a who's who dedicated to redheads – very updated, too – so I had to shift through a mountain of newspapers, mostly gossip ones, and make a note of every redhead character mentioned and what he or she was up to and so on. It was a highly interesting job, too. You wouldn't know what some people do in their free time. For example…"

Here Sherlock cut in sharply, before Wilson could lose himself in gossip, of all things. She could already feel her brain cells threatening to die out. "You have not requested our help to gossip like old ladies. Please, Mr. Wilson, if you could get to the actual crux of your problem." There. She'd said please again. She really was desperate for any sort of case right now.

"Oh, yes, of course. As I was saying, I worked with the materials provided to me in the office they let me use – a little place in a neighbourhood not nearly as nice as my own, but they paid me weekly, and they paid me well, so I didn't complain about commuting or anything. If they'd rather spend their money on people rather than rent I was lucky.

This went on for two weeks, but today I went to my job and a note tacked on the door informed me the league had ceased all activities. And on a Friday, too! I was due to be paid tomorrow. The more I think about it, the more odd I find all this. An association so respectable shouldn't disappear without previous warning. There's something fishy about this, Miss Holmes. A scam of some sort, maybe – they could have been victims and been forced to stop their endeavours. If Mr. Watson could look into it, maybe they'd get back to their projects once they had their money back," Mr. Wilson explained, a bit of a whine in his voice.

The detective barely kept herself from rolling her eyes. A scam, certainly. But certainly not one that saw the mysterious league as the victims. Someone wanted Wilson out of the shop for a long period of time. Why? What were they organizing? It might be worth looking into it. Of course Wilson wanted the league to be blameless. He just wanted his next pay check.

"We'll take the case," Sherlock assured, with a fake smile.

"Ummm…Shouldn't Mr. Watson be the one to decide that?" the client wondered, doubtful even in the midst of his relief.

"The case he's busy with should be closed soon, so I can assure you he'll like undertaking a new investigation afterwards. In the meantime, I'd like to see your shop – and speak to your employee," she said, doing her best not to grit her teeth. It was all something he was used to. It still irked her.

"My shop? Don't you mean my office?" Wilson queried, surprised.

"That too, certainly," the sleuth lied, waving away his concerns, "but I would really like a quick visit to your shop. It would help me sort out some details in advance and give Mr. Watson a complete report, which he'll undoubtedly demand." Or would have if he existed, at least.

"As for James, he's out of city right now. Apparently his mum got suddenly ill. I closed shop momentarily to come here – it seems I don't get clients anyway. But sure, if you insist," the redhead caved in.

Oh. So the bird had flown the nest already. She wouldn't find him – not there. She was confident that she could still catch him, though. "I do," she said.

Soon they were in East 69th Street. Surely some careless and ultimately bad investments had caused Wilson to lose all his old money. Now his shop wasn't on par with the others of the neighbourhood. Lower quality caused him to lose even more clients.

"Did you consider selling this and setting shop somewhere else?" she couldn't help but ask. The money from selling this place, no matter how small, would allow him a comfortable new start somewhere else. It was logic. Why did Wilson even stay? Was he stupid?

"It belonged to my family for generations," the man replied, looking horrified at her proposal.

She barely kept from rolling her eyes. _Sentiment._ The ruin of illogic people since the start of the world. She should have known better than to offer good advice, really.

A quick investigation of the shop and the laboratory in the back revealed a place where the floor sounded empty. A hidden tunnel. So 'James' needed Wilson out to hide the excavations. Now, where did this lead? Interesting.

The sleuth didn't mention it to Wilson. The man would fret uselessly. Instead, she found a way to follow the tunnel without entering it. It was a mile long and ended at Tiffany. Clever. The famous jewellery was protected against people trying to get in, but not through the walls – or the floor.

Sherlock contacted the owners, saying that she'd gotten a tip-off about a robbery tonight and that she wanted the pleasure to ambush them herself, so she'd love if they allowed her to lay inside the shop in wait once it closed. It was easier claiming having been tipped by an anonymous source than explaining her own deductions – she didn't want to have to show them the tunnel, their clever thief would run away if he thought himself discovered.

Of course, Tiffany had his own guards, but she didn't doubt that 'James' would have thought of that, too. He seemed a resourceful, clever lad. Casually mentioning her good friend (sort of), police captain Lestrade, persuaded Tiffany that an additional level of security might not be amiss.

So that night saw her laying in wait in a darkened jewellery, blood singing with anticipation. Finally someone emerged from the masked tunnel. 'James' was short, blond, and – was that a Christmas-themed jumper? What sort of thief wore garish reindeer jumpers on the job? (Fine, it was December – still.)

"Hello, James," she said, her voice low and roughened by a decade's smoking, cuffing him swiftly in one smooth movement.

"Fuck!" he swore, fighting the handcuffs. Then he got a good look at his captor. "Wait…you're a girl?! Is this the prelude to something kinky?" he said with a laugh and a leer, relaxing.

She hit him hard on the chest, leaving him wheezy. "Consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. The one who figured out your little scheme and will get you in jail. And I hoped that being mildly clever you'd be a decent human being, too, but that's obviously too much to ask of a discharged, damaged British army doctor turned criminal to satisfy at the same time his need for money and his adrenaline addiction," she bit back bitterly.

"Hey. Sherlock, was it? Sorry. I've been a twat, I know. But in my defence, you're too gorgeous for me not to try flirting with you. Not my best line, I'll admit. I'm usually more suave, I swear. How long have you been investigating me, by the way? I'm flattered that you know me so well," the thief apologized, looking oddly sincere too.

Not something the detective expected. She awaited an explosion of vain rage at this point – but instead, this. It was surprising, and the detective loved being surprised. So she replied simply, shrugging, "Mr. Wilson came to me this afternoon. I didn't need to investigate you to know all of this. It was rather obvious. I just saw."

"How?" the thief said, sounding honestly interested.

"Your haircut, your whole bearing says military, but your hands are those of a surgeon – very characteristic. So, army doctor. With your love of danger, you wouldn't have left the military unless they made you – most probably due to traumatic injury, though I'm not sure where. The fact that you have chosen this career instead of a highly respected job as a surgeon tells all about your need for adrenaline," the sleuth replied, talking quickly as always when her deductions poured out of her.

"That's amazing," James breathed reverently.

"Is it?" Sherlock asked, shocked. Why wasn't this man angry?

"Of course. Extraordinary, quite extraordinary," the criminal reiterated, always apparently in awe of her. "If I had to get caught, I'm proud it was by a genius at least. Though I couldn't have continued being a surgeon. After the war, I found that my hands shook unless there was the thrill of imminent danger to keep them steady. Bloody inconvenient. I wasn't about to start diagnosing colds," the man said amiably.

"Of course you weren't," the detective acknowledged, and found herself smiling at him. "Well, there's always something one misses but it didn't invalidate my conclusions at all. But I must admit you surprise me. That's not what other people say when I deduce them."

"What do they say?" James queried, smiling back.

"Criminals mostly swear revenge – usually with a tremendous lack of imagination, too. There isn't such a sporting attitude, at least not in USA. As for other people, they use some variation of 'Piss off,' " she admitted, hiding a grimace at the thought of the universal hate she encountered on a daily basis.

"Well then other people are idiots," the criminal quipped.

"That's my motto," Sherlock agreed, and they shared another smile. What was she doing? Did she _like_ him? "Though you are moderately clever. The plan to drive Wilson out of the shop was novel at least, Mr Bond. And I notice that none of Tiffany's security guards have joined us yet."

"Thank you. As for the guards, they're asleep – I courted the woman who regularly delivers them coffee and persuaded her to let me play a little prank on my 'friends'. I am a doctor. I know how to drug people," the man declared, smiling, "but that's not my name. I just wanted an excuse to say, 'My name is Bond. James Bond.' " He laughed then (such a carefree sound – not something she heard from people in handcuffs).

"Why?" the sleuth queried, uncomprehending.

"Agent 007? Wait, have you seriously never watched a 007 movie? That's practically a sin, you know. If only we'd met under different circumstances, Sherlock. You, me, movie night?" not-Bond replied, sighing longingly.

And the detective found that she suddenly wanted this, too. It was unheard of. She didn't feel – much less for criminals. But this man hadn't mocked her for her ignorance. He hadn't called her a freak for deducing him. He hadn't threatened or yelled at her for capturing him, even. He had only teased her kindly, and even apologised to her. He was one of a kind, certainly.

A mad plan entered her mind. Could she – well, she already did with Mrs Hudson, hadn't she? "About these circumstances…you haven't stolen anything yet," the sleuth pointed out, with a sly smile.

"No. No, I haven't," the criminal agreed good-naturedly, clearly interested in where the conversation was going.

"And you like acting. With your military background and your employer's lack of immediate family, you could have easily kidnapped him while you were busy with your excavations. But no, you played league delegate and drove him out. I can see why you'd invest – this heist would have more than repaid you," Sherlock remarked conversationally.

"I like danger, not needless violence. And it's way more fun this way," not-Bond explained with an almost boyish grin.

"Oh, I agree," the detective said, smiling back. "Also, you must be a great con man. Mr Wilson didn't recognise you – you had him under your spell. He didn't even notice the wig."

"Once I tugged on his hair, the idea that mine could be fake disappeared from his mind. He naturally thought I'd been subjected to the same procedure. Simple psychology," the man revealed with a smug smirk. "But yes, I'm quite good at fooling people. And I love it, I admit. Always been in the theatre club at school."

"Then I have a proposition for you. Become my boss," she declared casually.

"What?" he couldn't help but ask.

"I had to forge a male boss because people don't want to admit that I can solve cases better than any of them and take on anything the job might require, which is patently ridiculous. I know seven martial arts _and_ fencing, I can subdue any criminal. You wouldn't have to do any actual detection – only pretend to. But you would come with me, hounding down criminals. I bet you'd have fun. And I would have a John Watson to show to clients and policemen and someone to patch me up when criminals manage to get at me despite everything. You are a doctor, after all," she proposed enthusiastically.

"Well, if it is that or jail..." the thief shrugged.

"No, don't be ridiculous. That'd be blackmail, and I despise blackmailers," the sleuth replied, making a face. "I won't let you steal, but if you refuse I'd let you go. Of course, I would have to inform everyone of the tunnel tomorrow morning, and have police hunt you down. Which you'll probably escape because theft is Athelney Jones' division and he's an idiot. If you'd just murder someone, I might get Lestrade on it – he's a decent policeman."

Once again, the thief laughed. A beautiful sound, really. "Sorry but I have no urges to murder anyone at the moment. And you? Wouldn't you hunt me?" he replied, acting disappointed.

"Would you want me to?" she queried, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh, absolutely," the man replied eagerly. "But I think I'll just accept your offer instead, if that gets me to see you deducing again. You're a sight when you do."

Sherlock blushed at that. She couldn't help it. It was probably a fake compliment, she reminded herself brusquely – but it sounded so sincere, even to her trained to detect lies self.

"Just a thing. Can't I really take anything? Because here there are all these pretty keys," he said, indicating one on a nearby display in platinum and pink gold, covered in diamonds, "and getting you a key to your lock seemed fitting."

"I don't need trinkets," she replied, scoffing. "And if you still mean to steal, you might think to accept but you're certainly not sure about your career. I hate repetition, but I'll ask you officially and I want a committed answer: will you be my Watson?" The detective didn't realize it, but she was imperious and absolutely breath-taking then.

"Oh God, yes," he answered, breathless and vibrant at the same time. "By the way, why John Watson?"

"I needed an ordinary, solid, good name…and my third case was a forger who lived in John Road, Watsontown, Pennsylvania. I decided I liked it," the sleuth revealed, shrugging.

"Oh, I like it too. So what do we say about tonight? I've joined you on this case and we've protected Tiffany together, have we? Do you think there will be a recompense?" now-John queried.

"Obviously," Sherlock nodded. "Do not worry, you will have your expenses covered. Also, a detail. I receive clients in my flat. It would be convenient if you came to live with me. There's an extra room, and it would allow me to keep you under surveillance at the start – should you find yourself tempted to get some other trinket."

"You want us to live together?!" he queried, flabbergasted.

"For _cases._ And to ensure you don't stray. That's what I said, isn't it? and I really hate repeating myself, John," she pointed out sternly.

"Well…thanks for the offer. Of course. Gladly, Sherlock," John agreed. It would certainly be an improvement from the bedsit he'd stayed at during the staging of this heist. Not to mention the delightful company. (Keep your mind out of the gutter, John, he told himself, repeating his new name to get used to it. She hit you once already when you mentioned sex…Not that it was going to stop him from flirting – with much more taste, for sure.)

"Almost forgot," the detective said, freeing his new associate's still handcuffed hands. "You're welcome, John. In both senses of the word."


	2. A study in (New York) Pink

_Disclaimer: I still own nothing._

 _A.N. If you want to see Sherlock's house, the crime scene house, and know what colour is exactly New York Pink, check my tumblr: imnova . tumblr. com (remove spaces – I had to put them or the site wouldn't show it). For Sherlock's house, the address I was thinking about while writing is 128 East 93_ _rd_ _Street, Upper East Side, New York City. Do check it out – it's lovely. Also, genderbent Donovan because I always suspected that there's a bit of scorned aspiring lover in her hate._

Episode 2: A study in (New York) pink

John – he needed to get used fast to this new name, as he hoped to keep it for a long time – followed Sherlock to his new home, a light blue, wooden Victorian house in Carnegie Hill, ten minutes from Central Park by foot. It held such an old-fashioned charm that John barely kept from gushing over it – but he was pretty sure that it was out of his price range, no matter how much he'd managed to amass with his thefts. Only he didn't have a choice, did he? Sherlock wanted to keep an eye on him. And why was she working at all if she had the money for this instead of worrying about her next party? John had no idea how his dilemma could be solved.

A sweet-looking elderly lady welcomed them at the door. "Oh Sherlock, and who is this fine man?" she queried, nosy but well disposed.

"This, Mrs Hudson, is John Watson. He's going to live with me from now on. His previous apartment has developed a serious mould problem, you see," the detective replied matter-of-factly.

"Oh, is he, now?" the old woman remarked with an incredulous look that made John suspect that she had read through the sleuth's charade. "Of course he will, we can't leave him there, can we? Mould is really dreadful – almost impossible to get rid of entirely," she added, apparently friendly. But after a breath, she sighed, "I do hope that you know what you're getting into, my dear." She might be talking to either of them, but John had the feeling that this was for her first tenant – that this woman was protective of her. Well, it was good to know.

"And this, John, is the mother hen we have as a landlady. Mrs Martha Hudson. She used to run a drug cartel until I got her husband executed. Which is why we get a special deal on the rent," Sherlock informed him casually.

"It's the least I could do after all. I am really deeply grateful, my dear. Frank was downright awful. And Florida way too hot and humid for my taste," Mrs Hudson replied, clearly deeply fond of the sleuth.

John didn't bat an eyelid at the information. So Sherlock made a habit out of redeeming people, did she? He was glad he'd been picked, too – and not just because he wasn't inside a cell right now. "Do not worry about a thing, Mrs Hudson. I'm a British gentleman and an almost model tenant…and Sherlock could probably kick my ass if I annoyed her," he said, laughing.

"Oh, I don't know. With your military training, I think we'd be evenly matched," the sleuth pointed out airily.

Mrs Hudson gave her a very pointed look that meant, "Military? Are you sure you want him in the house, young lady?" A soldier – or ex-soldier, whatever – meant that he could seriously hurt her if he got angry. After what she'd suffered from Frank, she didn't want Sherlock to risk the same. Of course, this lad seemed very charming – but Frank had been too.

To her wordless question, the detective answered with a minute nod that told, "Very sure. Trust me." Oh well. She always had to get her way, didn't she? Mrs Hudson would allow this. And be on the lookout in case anything untoward happened.

"Also, I was wondering if you might help us, Mrs Hudson?" John wondered loudly. He'd gotten an idea who might be worth trying.

"I'm your landlady, not my housekeeper, my dear," she answered automatically. It seemed something she had to repeat often.

"What? No, not about that. I meant, I think clients find so hard to take Sherlock seriously because they automatically assume that she's just my secretary, what with her being a woman – most people are such idiots, sadly. If we had a secretary already though – we'd pay you, of course – I think they might see her more easily as my colleague. You ran a cartel, it'd be a breeze to keep track of our appointments," John explained, smiling. He seemed to smile quite a lot. Sherlock decided that she liked his smile.

"You already pay me rent, young man. Well, you will. I will be glad to help Sherlock in any way I can," Mrs Hudson said, with a wide, approving grin. This stranger might be a good idea, after all. "But don't stay chatting with an old lady – go on, see your room. You must be anxious to set in."

John knew that whatever doubt the landlady had had on him, he had just passed her exam – with flying colours.

When they entered the flat, John looked around before pronouncing, "Not what I was expecting, but very nice indeed," in a carefully neutral voice.

"What were you expecting?" the sleuth couldn't help but ask.

"Less mess, more doilies," the man admitted honestly.

The detective made a face at the idea of _doilies_ in her house, but she made a (very half-hearted) attempt to straighten things out. She had a flatmate now. A useful flatmate who thought about how to make people recognise her as a proper investigator. She'd never considered the need for a secretary from a client's psychological standpoint. She needed to make allowances. "But don't think I'll be doing all the house chores simply because I'm a woman," she warned sternly.

"I wouldn't dream of it," John assured seriously. Especially if this was the result of Sherlock's feminine touch. A more organised man's touch might indeed be needed. And doing his share of chores had never been a problem for the former army doctor. "So which is my chair?" he queried.

"What?" Sherlock countered, apparently not expecting that turn of conversation.

"You said you receive clients here, there are two chairs just asking for people having a serious conversation. I suppose it's one each. And I thought you'd have your favourite," John explained. Caring about her preferences automatically, instead of feeling entitled to whatever he wanted. Sherlock liked him.

"Oh yes, well, I suppose you can have client's chair, the point is for you to be present for that. They can sit anywhere else," the sleuth replied, nodding toward one.

John sat down and broke in an approving grin. "This and cases. I could get used to this. Tea?" he offered.

"How British of you. I'm more of a coffee person myself, but I suppose I could try it. There should be a couple of teabags around, if you rummage," she teased, shrugging.

That lead to John's explorations of the kitchen – with relative interesting discoveries which he chose not to comment upon diplomatically. One thing, though, needed to be mentioned. "Don't you eat? You only have a packet of biscuits and a stale leftover from a Chinese restaurant. That's it. I'm going to the shop. Anything you want?" he proclaimed, mildly shocked, shaking his head. "I would be very grateful if in the meantime you could move from my room anything that you don't want me to see or that should really not be slept with. I'm sure you've set it up as an additional lab, or storage, or something. But I'll need to live there."

"These are cookies, John. Could you get more of them? Also, maybe grapefruit juice?" Sherlock asked, shrugging. John was very thoughtful and caring, instead of immediately behaving as if he owned the place (the reason she'd never hired an actor before). She had picked well.

"Sure," her new flatmate agreed, though he barely restrained from rolling his eyes at the lack of nutritious food on her list. He'd have to take care of that. Oh, and of tea. He couldn't unearth the spare teabags Sherlock believed should be in the kitchen from the mix of chemicals and lab equipment in there.

When he came back from shopping (with lots of actual food, beside Sherlock's juice and cookies – and a British flag pillow as a silly impulse buy), he found his flatmate watching the telly – some sort of press conference – and furiously texting. "Is my room liveable in?" he queried, putting away the groceries. Sherlock, engrossed in whatever she was doing, hadn't moved to help him at all.

"Of course. Upstairs. But now we have much better things to do. A serial killer, John! And Lestrade doesn't even know that he's got one!" she replied excitedly.

"Really?" he inquired, sounding almost as enthusiastic. Hunting down a serial killer sounded thrilling. And he'd even do the right thing, for once. He knew he'd done the right choice when he had accepted the sleuth's offer.

"Really. Lestrade will arrive soon, for sure. Ready for the show, boss?" the detective inquired, with a wide grin.

"I've been born ready," he assured, nodding vigorously.

When the police captain arrived, a whole hour and half later, they were ensconced in their respective chairs with tea. John had insisted, saying it couldn't hurt – privately thinking that it would calm her overexcited nerves – and John had soon discovered that it wasn't disgustingly mild as she remembered, but delightful (though that might be only John's tea). True to her new secretary duties, Mrs Hudson showed Lestrade in.

"I didn't know that you were with a client, Sherlock," the policeman said, looking half embarrassed at interrupting and half determined to steal his consulting detective away anyhow.

"She's not," John said, getting up and offering his hand to shake. "John Watson. It is a pleasure to finally meet you, captain."

Lestrade blinked once in surprise, though he automatically shook the proffered hand, eyeing him somehow suspiciously. "John Watson, uh?" he asked, a bit incredulous.

Had the detective's little deception been seen through by way more people than she expected? That'd be a big problem for John. He simply nodded. No sense adding some loud, wordy confirmation. It would be even more suspect.

"You said he was older than you," the policeman told Sherlock.

"And I am – by three whole years," John confirmed with a smile, without missing a beat.

"From the way she talked about you, I just thought it'd be a lot more," Lestrade admitted, shrugging.

"Sherlock – have you been badmouthing me?" the blond queried, mock-severe but clearly good-natured.

"You were always too busy or too lazy to come to crime scenes. I had to find you an excuse, old man," the sleuth bit back, with a teasing pout.

"Well then that changes now. We have a crime scene to get to, yes?" John declared, trying to hide his enthusiastic eagerness.

"5A Carmine Street, in the West Village. An empty house, up for sale – that's where we found the victim. This one left a note – none of the others did," Lestrade stated, accepting the new addition to his crime scenes. John Watson seemed a good-natured bloke. And if Sherlock had accepted him as a boss he had to be bloody brilliant, too. "See you soon there." He'd learned the hard way not to offer Sherlock a ride on a police car.

When they arrived at the crime scene, half an hour later, a policeman guarding it greeted them

With a smile that was more of a sneer and a, "Hello, Freak, and who's there with you?"

"John Watson," he replied in a clipped tone, not letting Sherlock do the introductions.

"Really? Wow, the Invisible Man finally deigns our crime scene. We were all starting to think you were a myth. Who could stand her royal bitchiness after all?" the sergeant bit back arrogantly, clearly expecting John to agree with him. Instead, John glared at him.

Sherlock smoothly interjected, "Just because you have to resort to prostitutes to have any sort of company it doesn't mean I'm the same. I'm not just talking about romantically, though that's obvious. Your so called 'friends' barely stand you, which doesn't surprise me at all, and are now shirking your company. How sad is it to pay people just to chat? Or is it that you can't get it up anymore?"

"What – you – how dare you!" the man spluttered.

"How? Do you really want me to go into the details, Sam Donovan?" the sleuth replied, smirking.

One of the witnesses of the scene, one of the scientific squad judging by his attire, protested loudly, "So? You're her boss, bring her to heel! Don't you have anything to say?"

"Oh yes," John stated, a gleam in his eyes. "Sherlock, I have to scold you – you didn't tell me you were bullied by the idiots whose job you have to do for them. If it's a regular thing, like it seems, I think that there might be enough to file an official complaint. Also, I admire your restraint – personally, I'd just have punched him."

At the first word, a betrayed, angry look had painted itself on the consulting detective's face, though she had not objected out loud, while a satisfied look settled on the onlookers, eager to see Sherlock brought down a peg or two. At the end, though, their expressions had switched.

"But – but –" the man from the scientific squad had stammered, outraged.

"Now, if you'll forgive us, we have a crime scene to get to," John said, grinning.

"Also, being so eager to see me punished for that particular statement is a clue that it is applicable to you as well, Anderson," Sherlock pointed out in a Parthian shot that left the other man red-faced and stammering for a moment.

"Don't you ruin _my_ crime scene!" Anderson called after them, surly, once he got his bearings back.

Lestrade greeted them much more agreeably, showing them the body. At an imperceptible nod from Sherlock, and under the police captain's expectant eyes, John examined the body. He was a doctor, he could do this. After sharing a few conclusions, he got up and said, "Now, Sherlock, why don't you tell us what you get from this? Prove me I've taught you well." He felt terribly arrogant telling that, but he needed an excuse to get the sleuth to talk. If Lestrade was surprised from the request when the supposed 'boss' was there, he didn't protest – he knew what the consulting detective could do.

Sherlock started deducing a mile a minute, and John couldn't contain himself. He breathed, "Brilliant." She was such a sight like this. The compliment actually gave her pause. "I mean, you ain't missing anything so far. Go on," he urged smiling, eager for more of the show.

After a while, once again the doctor added, "Amazing." He was surprised that Lestrade _didn't_ , honestly. When she blushed and stopped again, he pointed out, "You know me. I believe in giving due praise."

What John had not expected from this crime scene was for her to conclude the exposition by blurting out, "Pink!" and running away as if possessed. Shrugging at Lestrade, he gave chase. Only for Anderson, who was getting back to his crime scene, to trip him. Because he hadn't publicly humiliated Sherlock? How petty could the man be? "What the hell!" John growled, annoyed.

"Oh. Sorry. I didn't see you," the man replied, with the fakest polite smile in the world.

He'd lost no more than a minute, but when John got to the street Sherlock – bullet-fast that he'd been – was already nowhere in sight. Oh bugger. There was no sense asking Donovan – he'd send John the wrong way just because he could, if he was anything like Anderson (and maybe he was worse).

"I do hope that that psycho kills you when she snaps," the sergeant called grumbling after him.

"She's not a murderer, but if she was, I'd start worrying about myself were I in your shoes," the doctor replied without even looking back at him. It would be useless searching for Sherlock. Now, to find a cab.

Or not. John's blood sang with enthusiasm when he was kindly but firmly – and very creepily – offered a ride by some sort of evil mastermind. For all that he'd been a criminal himself, he thought these things only happened in movies (not that he objected).

In the end, a sharply dressed man with an incongruous umbrella waited for him in a bloody empty warehouse. "Welcome, Mr…"

"Watson. John Watson. But you already know, of course. I doubt that you offer rides to random strangers," he replied, with a collected smile.

"If you say so," the man countered, a sneer playing on his lips. "Now, doctor Watson, how long is it that you've hired Sherlock Holmes? Five years?"

Uh-oh, trick question. John had no doubt that the man knew perfectly how many years ago Sherlock had created her boss' persona – while he had no idea. "For this kind of questions you should have kidnapped my secretary," he answered boldly. "I'm shit at remembering anniversaries, as any of my girlfriends could tell you, and frankly it feels as if I've known Sherlock since forever." He was surprised to discover he was telling the truth.

"But the cohabitation is a recent development. Is your partnership branching out from the strictly professional realm?" umbrella man queried.

"Not yet. Not that it concerns you," John retorted sternly.

"But it could. Since the consultations with the police are free of charge – such an admirable civic-mindedness, that – and cases are never as frequent as one'd hope, I could cushion your bank account," the stranger offered.

"For what?" John countered, distrustful.

"Information about Sherlock Holmes. Whatever you'd feel comfortable sharing. You'll know more about her than you'd ever wish too soon, I imagine," the other man stated, oily.

"No," the doctor bit back curtly.

"I haven't mentioned a figure yet," umbrella man pointed out, insinuating.

"Don't bother. Now will you get me a ride home or do I need to fight my way back?" John asked.

The creepy man smirked. "No need for violence now…no matter how much you might wish for it."

When he arrived back home, Sherlock welcomed him with a, "You're late." After taking a sharp look at him, she added, "Oh right. You've met the president."

"Which one?" John queried. Was that the nickname of a mafia boss? Was this what the mysterious kidnapper was? It would not surprise him.

"The US one," the sleuth replied, sounding bored.

"Ummm…no. I think I'd have noticed," he pointed out reasonably.

"You met my brother, which amounts to the same thing. Or do you really expect our idiot politicians not to have someone telling them what to do? The world would be up in flames without Mycroft. He's never entered elections only because there's no way that he's relinquishing power after eight measly years," she stated matter-of-factly. As if that made perfect sense.

"That was your brother? He wanted to pay me to spy on you!" the doctor blurted out, shocked.

"And will you?" the detective queried, without batting an eyelid at the news.

"No!" John yelled. "I thought he was a criminal mastermind," he added less loudly, embarrassed. He was feeling so stupid now. Where had his smart and smooth persona gone? The Holmes family was all crazy and they would be the end of his sanity too. But Sherlock needed a Watson to stand up not for, but with her – and he'd be damned if he let her alone with the bullies she had around her.

"Close enough," she remarked, quirking a smile. Whatever embarrassment John was feeling fled and he laughed with her. "Never mind that now. We have work to do. Here we have the victim's case – it was in a skip near the crime scene. Colour coordinated with her clothes and make-up, as I expected. All in New York Pink. Do you think that if she went to UK she'd dress in London Smoke grey?" Sherlock scoffed. "Anyway, I need you to send a text."

To the murderer, it turned out. Not that John objected. Especially since it landed him in a cosy Italian restaurant. With Sherlock. And with an owner intent on making things more romantic for them. Not wanting to make Sherlock uncomfortable, and vividly remembering that she'd reacted violently at his sex joke, he opened his mouth to say, "No, we're not…"

Before he could add, "dating," Sherlock interrupted him, "Angelo, this is John Watson." Which gained him a bear hug from Angelo, because the boss of his saviour was his saviour too, apparently – for setting Sherlock on the case. The restaurant owner scolded him, saying that he'd started to think he didn't like Italian cuisine – what with never having come before.

"Heresy," John assured him, earning a grin, and promised that things would change – he'd come around much more often. Satisfied, Angelo left.

"So? Have you brought a lot of dates here before?" the doctor asked, made curious by the man's automatic assumption.

"No one," Sherlock replied simply.

"It was probably a smart move, Angelo can be _a bit_ overwhelming," he countered, smiling. "But since we're on the subject: any jealous boyfriends who might be seriously put out by our flat-sharing?"

"No boyfriends. I wouldn't have a Watson vacancy, would I?" she pointed out shrugging.

He laughed. (And really, why was his laugh such a lovely sound? It sidetracked Sherlock's thoughts with irritation. This was a business partnership, she wasn't supposed to be charmed. Gods, no!) "Right. Sorry," John admitted. "A girlfriend then, maybe? It's all fine."

"I know it's fine, but no. Neither, John," she huffed. What did her inability to form significant romantic attachments matter anyway?

"Free like a bird then. Like me. Good," he remarked, licking his lips.

Oh. So that's why it mattered. She couldn't – she didn't – she… "I'm very flattered, John, but I'm married to my work," she blurted out automatically.

He laughed again. "Not the smartest rejection line to use on your boss," he teased with a boyish grin.

The sleuth blushed. "I meant –" she said sternly, going immediately rigid and defensive.

"Relax, I know what you meant. And I can assure you that I've never molested a woman in my life and I have definitely no intention to start now. Besides, I've never had to," the doctor interjected, serious and placating.

"Because they all fell to your feet swooning?" she quipped. The sad thing was, she could believe it.

"You said so," John replied, with a winsome smile.

Before they could banter more, Sherlock suddenly led him to chase a cab which might have contained their murderer. On foot. And yet they reached it, thanks to her knowledge of the city. Detective work was exhilarating, John decided – even when it ended in nothing, like tonight. They shared giggles all the way home.

Only for their good mood to be bashed by more police bullying. That really needed to stop, John decided. "You definitely have the wrong flat," he growled, hearing of the drugs bust. He wouldn't vouch for Mrs Hudson's, though. Old habits die hard. But _Sherlock_? Sherlock wasn't – was she? Was that why she'd picked Mrs H. as a landlady? She definitely didn't look like a druggie, but better not stress how clean she was too loud, in case he was wrong. It would bust his I've known her for years cover.

Neither he or Sherlock would stand for silly accuses of murder or general sneering, though. "We found the evidence where you would have if you'd only known to look for it. we were going to bring it in soon. Really, Lestrade," he snapped. The police captain looked unconvinced. Apparently Sherlock had a habit of keeping evidence to herself.

With both of the flatmates fighting to rein in their 'esteemed' police (he couldn't blame Sherlock for being angry – he was, too) finally things calmed down enough for the sleuth to be able to hear her own thoughts and start figuring things out, gorgeous as ever. John really needed to remember not to use that particular adjective when praising her – he doubted she'd appreciate it much. And if once again it didn't amount to anything (but how could the phone be here when it didn't ring? How odd), it wasn't her fault.

Though John had to admit it. The detective might have been right in this particular instance – the name was indeed a password – but that she didn't understand how an abortion might be a long-standing trauma for a woman surprised him. But it was only a quirk more. He could work around it. And that she automatically searched for his help and guidance (only because he was supposed to be his boss? He hoped not) made him proud. He was careful not to be scornful towards her, but only briefly point out what was needed.

What _didn't_ surprise him was the sleuth taking the chance to flee his invaded home, despite the cab probably having the wrong address, or the policemen leaving as soon as their favourite victim wasn't around anymore. Prats.

Hence why no one was there when he suddenly figured things out. The cab. The bloody cab they'd chased! His absurdly reckless colleague had run away with a murderer – and John bet she knew it, too. That's why she'd seemed so absentminded. Getting mentally ready for the upcoming confrontation, no doubt. If she wanted to do it without police, fine, but not without him. Weren't they a team? Hadn't the detective promised him his share of adrenaline?

Another cab, and he was after her in a second. Like hell he'd leave her alone to face this. But the layout of the empty college he was ultimately led to by the gps was bloody confusing, and he couldn't manage to find her. Fuck. Bloody triple fuck.

Then John finally noticed her from a window – on the brink of taking a no doubt poisoned pill. Oh no, miss! Don't you dare! Not on his watch, surely. He had his gun – and a bloody good aim, if he said so himself. The murderer was taken down – and the pill went rolling somewhere, falling from Sherlock's shocked hands.

The detective didn't expect the shoot. She very much didn't expect to realise John Watson had saved her. He could have let her die and gone back to his previous work. But no, he'd saved her. Why had he saved her? He couldn't possibly care for her. She had to ask.

She went over to him, shrugging off Lestrade who'd finally arrived – when everything had ended, as usual. "Good shot," she remarked.

"Well, yes. He must have been," John countered, playing innocent most perfectly if it wasn't for the grin on his lips.

"I don't suppose you'd go to jail for that, but best be careful. Have you been?" she asked directly, not allowing him to play around.

"Do not worry. There's a time for daring and there's a time for caution, and a wise man understands which is called for. John Keating."

"And who is that?" she asked.

"Robin Williams? Dead Poets Society, 1989?" the doctor replied. She blinked owlishly. He sighed. "Sherlock, we really need to have that movie night." To his surprise, she nodded.

"And do this again, too. Soon. Are all cases like this?" he queried, like an eager child.

"Only the best, John. Only the best."


	3. Faces from the past

_Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me._

Episode 3: Faces from the past

When Mrs Hudson introduced the grim-faced, black dressed client, for a moment John took him for a mortician. Instead, Mr Carter was the curator of a relatively small but very well-connected private museum.

"You might have heard of the exhibit we started at Halloween, _Ill omens and cursed works._ We have managed to gather quite a few works of art supposed to bring bad luck or otherwise cursed. It's quite the heterogeneous collection, naturally. We go from mummies to contemporary art. And despite rumours assuring that having some of these things on display will guarantee the failure of any exhibit, we've had quite a success of public," the man said proudly.

"There's a bust in particular that I feel would need an extra layer of protection, which I hoped you could ensure: Medardo Rosso's Bambino Malato, that is to say the sick child," he added, wringing his hands nervously.

John fought back a smile. "Why?" Sherlock queried, leaning towards him.

"It's been stolen once already, in 2014," Carter said, looking a bit too dazed by the sleuth's charm for the so-called boss' tastes.

"And the same thief brought it back, that time," John pointed out amiably, but trying to divert the man's eyes to himself. Maybe he should have a word with Sherlock later. Anyway, being willingly brought back didn't certainly make the bust a much coveted work.

"Yes, three days after the theft it was found in one of the museum's – the one that loaned it to us – supply closets. But can I ask how do you know?" their client acknowledged, raising a surprised eyebrow.

"I was following a different case in Italy at the time and that's why I heard of such a funny tale," John explained nonchalantly. His colleague looked sharply at him. She had her suspicions about how John had gained knowledge of that, and how involved he might have been.

"If it had been simply this past attempt scaring you, however recent it might be, you would have come to us since the start of your exhibit. But no, you come here months later. So I repeat, why? Hiding things is always bad politics for a client," Sherlock interjected sharply.

"Understand that I have no evidence," Mr Carter said hesitantly.

"It'll be our duty to find it," John assured, sounding reasonable and oh so reassuring.

"There's someone – a high-end media tycoon, you see – who came to our exhibit and offered us a lofty sum to buy the Medardo Rosso. Naturally, we had to refuse, stating it was a loan from an Italian museum, so it was impossible. He seemed particularly put out, but he's come again, and again – and yesterday, I noticed him in friendly conversation with one if our guards," their client narrated, eyes shifting everywhere.

"You would he would commission its theft and that he might be collecting information himself – which he probably isn't doing, it would be stupid of him, but he could be trying to buy out your guards to look away from the theft when it happens," the detective stated openly, when it was evident that no other word would be forthcoming.

Mr Carter seemed very ill at ease, afraid he might have said too much. "I'm not an impressionable man, I assure you, Mr Watson, but that man gives me the creeps," he confessed at last.

After sharing a look with Sherlock, John said, "We'll take your case, Mr Carter. Of course, you'll have to give us a name – and full access to your museum and its safety measures. Don't you worry. The poor sick child will be safe." And if his smile was more amused than reassuring – the one he had been aiming for – he hoped their client wouldn't notice. The man nodded, giving a sigh of relief and hearty thanks before leaving.

"We're going to the museum at soon as it closes, which is – nine pm. Late for a museums, but hey, more time to get visitors I guess. I was afraid it would be already," the detective announced, checking the museum's website. "Not even the most brazen thief would swipe the bust off with visitors still milling around – at least, I hope. Until then –"

Checking his own phone, John cut in, "I have a date, it seems. I solemnly swear that I'd be there at nine sharp, but I am going out. I don't want to disappoint this one, Sherlock."

The sleuth opened her mouth to protest. They were on a case, what if John's date dragged on, this was completely unprofessional. But she didn't have anything against her colleague dating in general, of course, she told herself. The sharp tang of disappointment in her heart was only because they had a case – and it didn't seem interesting enough for him.

Before she could voice all of this, though, she received a text herself. That made her change her tune. (Thank God she hadn't objected that.) "Bring her –" she suggested instead.

"Not to Angelo's. He might be a bit overwhelming," the doctor interjected quickly. Not to mention it was their restaurant.

She huffed. "Of course not Angelo's. No, to the Loeb Boathouse in Central Park. It's nice and if you remind them of that poisoning case we solved for them last winter, I'm sure that they'll find you a table despite usually needing reservations."

"Oh. Thank you. I will. How many restaurant have we worked with, by the way?" he asked, curious.

"Some." She shrugged. "I'll get you a list later, if you want. Now you better get ready for your date, don't you?"

"Yes, yes, don't worry. I'll be out of your hair soon," John assured, reading her correctly.

Truth was, he couldn't be out of the house soon enough – Mummy was coming. She arrived seven sharp, as she'd texted – but if she'd come sooner than announced, it wouldn't have been the first time. Thank God John was already out by then. Mummy announced, "We're talking over dinner, Lockie."

"I'm not eating, mum. I have a case," she replied testily.

"Don't be ridiculous," her mother countered, taking out a divinely smelling box, "I made your favourite, honey, vanilla, clove glazed ham. You're eating until I'm satisfied. I know you'd starve without me coming round every now and then."

"I most certainly would not," Sherlock replied, annoyed. She wanted to refuse, but her mother was as stubborn as she was and extremely hard to deny, and it _was_ her favourite. Maybe only a slice.

"Now, this flatmate of yours, where is he?" her mother queried, filling her plate.

"Out on a date," the sleuth replied, without looking at her. Why did it annoy her? It had no right to annoy her.

"Without you?" Mrs Holmes asked, raising a surprised eyebrow.

"Obviously, mum," Sherlock bit back sharply, before giving up and tasting the ham. She sighed minutely in pleasure at her mother's cooking.

"You started living with a man, I thought that you finally wanted to give me grandchildren," mummy countered, shrugging.

"I'm not going to!" the detective exclaimed, blushing. "Why don't you hound Mycroft for grandchildren too?" she complained, whining.

"Because he's gay, Sherlock," her mother said simply.

"Well, he can still adopt," the sleuth grumbled with her mouth full.

"Anyway, I'll want to meet this flatmate of yours soon," Mrs Holmes declared in a no-nonsense tone.

"To ask him for grandchildren?" Sherlock queried, horrified at the prospect.

"Don't be silly dear. To get to know him. Mycroft said that he refused to give any other name than John Watson, and we all know who that is," her mother replied, clicking her tongue disapprovingly.

"You mean to deduce him. Don't you think that I've done that already and that I wouldn't have invited him in the flat if he'd been an axe murderer? And I'm sure Mycroft did too," she huffed. "Besides, did my brother tell you that he refused to spy on me? He's annoyed at that. That's the only reason he sicced you on me."

"He did, and I assure you that he was relieved for that, not irritated. But we all know both Mycroft and you occasionally miss things. I want to see him myself soon, Sherlock. That is not negotiable. And now, don't you dare stop eating, miss," mummy ordered, indicating her still not empty plate.

"But mummy, I've eaten two slices!" she whined. What could she say, despite everything she told herself she couldn't resist her mother's cooking.

"Another half slice and I'll leave you alone. Promise. You'll just have more leftovers," Mrs Holmes proposed, knowing to pick her battles. She always tried to feed her daughter as much as she could, but she never managed to make her eat like she wished. Disgruntled, Sherlock complied. With mummy compromise was the only option.

In the meantime, John was meeting his date in Central Park. "So nice to see you, Sarah."

"Not anymore. I go by Mary these days. And you? What's today's name?" she replied, smiling.

"John. John Watson," he revealed, smiling back.

"I've not seen the movie he's in. Which one was it again?" Mary asked, shrugging.

"It's not from a movie. I've not been the one to pick this alias," John explained, a soft smile on his lips.

"Got a partner again?" she queried, raising an eyebrow.

"You could say that," the former thief agreed, the same dreamy smile still on his lips – if anything, only wider.

"Ditch her," his date ordered immediately, petulant. "Whoever she is, she can never work with you as well as we did. We are made for each other, John, you know. And I need you now."

"Don't play the soulmate card with me when last time you drugged me and left me alone and without passport," John remarked, shaking his head in exasperated fondness. Why did he like women like that? Because they were not boring, he knew.

"Without the passport you'd been using at the time. You still got another four," she pointed out, smirking. "Look, some not very nice people were closing in on me. Playing male was my best bet at the time."

"I figured that out. I might have helped then, you know," John declared firmly.

"I need you to help me now," Mary countered, voice saccharine.

"With what?" he queried. Knowing her, it could be anything.

"Medardo Rosso's Sick Child. You stole it once," she revealed, gazing admiringly at him.

"Yeah, and the deal with the man who commissioned it fell through, and I had to bring it back. Believe me – the thing might be seriously bad luck, I don't know. What I do know is that it isn't worth the hassle," he said, hoping against hope to persuade her. Fuck. Just his luck. He very much doesn't want to see Sherlock and Mary pitted against each other. Catfights might be hot in theory, but he's sure this particular one would be a nightmare.

"My deal will hold. No doubt about that," she replied, dead serious. "So? Any insights?"

"Maybe," John replied, noncommittally. "But I really have to go now. Previous appointments and all that. You're not in a rush, are you?"

"I will probably go take a look around. Who knows, if their security is more lax than usual museums I might not need your help, after all," she told him, shrugging.

Uh oh. Things would get complicated soon. Measures might be needed.

"It's a pity we don't have the time to renew our relationship, though. Are you sure you have to keep these engagements?" she queried, pouting.

"Very sure. I really can't stay. Though I agree – it is a pity." He kissed her. Deeply. "See you soon."

"Tease," she called after him.

Like he expected, John arrived with ten minutes to spare on the moment they'll have to set out for the museum and he helpfully started to prepare coffee to bring with them in a thermos. They had a long stakeout in front of them tonight.

Sherlock looked him over with a frown, but he didn't remark on anything, relaxing and uttering a soft, "Thank you," when she saw what he was doing. John felt a quick stab of guilt at the thought of what he was really doing, but he wouldn't change his plans.

At the museum, they're allowed in, and examine the situation and the security measures. They end up at the bust's side, naturally. "That air vents look like an easy way in," Sherlock snorted.

John nodded. He'd noticed it too, of course. "Do you think the alarms will work?" he asked conversationally.

"How long would it take you to disable them?" the detective countered, looking unimpressed with the security measures she'd seen.

"Doesn't matter, does he? I'm not the one who will have to," he replied softly, shrugging.

"Humour me," she demanded, casually touching his arm. (Really casually. She'd gravitated towards him without realizing to, for God's sake.)

"Ten minute tops," John said, smiling.

"Ten? Oh. John. I think I could do better. We should have a friendly competition sometimes," the sleuth proposed, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"Sure ," John agreed enthusiastically. "But I said tops – better slower but being sure not to mess up. Coffee?"

"Thanks," she said, gulping the warm beverage down gratefully.

He didn't mention that he'd drugged it, but Sherlock must not face Mary. He knew her, and Mary was dangerous – and too trigger-happy for his tastes. He'd apologize to his flatmate later on – and leave her, if he had to. (He won't have to because the detective will ascribe the sudden drowsiness to having eaten and beat herself up for having given into Mummy.) John laid her down, giving her his jacket as a cushion, and set out to wait.

Mary didn't arrive from the air vent, but straight from the door. She must have visited the exhibit, hid herself in a loo or something and waited until now. She smiled and kissed him. "Oh John, here you are. Put it in my case for me, please."

"Turn back, Mary," he ordered, putting himself physically between her and the bust.

"Not without what I came for," she replied, sudden steel in her voice.

"You know I usually let you walk all over me, but this time I'll really have to stop you, Mary," John countered, not moving, "and you know that I'd win in a fight."

She didn't deny it. "Are you doing it for Sleeping Beauty?" Mary sneered, indicating Sherlock.

"I'm doing it because I want to," he stated simply.

"Oh. Of course. _John Watson._ The famous detective. Is that you? But you're certainly not, so – has he even ever existed? What would happen to you and Aurora here if I told it all to the media?" his former partner snarled with a cruel smirk.

"That's blackmail, Mary," John growled, surprised. They had their divergences, but he never thought they'd really ruin each other. Certainly not over anything so silly as one single heist.

"Yeah well, I learned from the best," she admitted bitterly. "I _need_ that bust, John."

"It's not theft on commission – you've been blackmailed to," John realized suddenly.

"Why pay for something when you can take it by force right?" Mary pointed out, sighing tiredly.

"What's your deadline?" he asked, frowning.

"In three days. But why dawdle?" she admitted, shrugging.

"Come to Sherlock tomorrow morning. We're detectives. We'll find you a way out of this. You don't need to be under nobody's thumb. I swear, Sherlock can figure it out. She's a genius," John entreated passionately.

"A sleepy genius," Mary pointed out, despise at such unprofessional behaviour and distrust in the sleuth clear in her voice.

"A genius who trusted me," the former thief explained, with his 'now that's enough' smile.

Mary laughed softly. "Poor silly girl."

"Tomorrow, Mary. Give us a day to try. If we can't help you, I'm getting you the damned bust myself," John promised. He would, too.

"Oh fine!" she agreed, sighing. "I like you too much, John Watson," she added, giving a teasing lilt to his new name. And she pecked him on the lips before leaving.

The following day, introduced by a dubious-looking Mrs. Hudson, Mary arrived just after breakfast as promised (well, John's breakfast – Sherlock had pointedly refused anything beyond tea).

As soon as she saw the smouldering look this woman gave John, Sherlock pointed out, "You've never brought dates home before," with a frown. Which while technically true, was probably a rule she'd just given him. Oh joy.

"I'm not here for a date," Mary pointed out, "even if I'd definitely not object to seeing John's bedroom. Is that it?" She moved towards Sherlock's room.

"That's mine," the sleuth snapped, before she could open the door.

"Oh sorry," Mary apologized, with enough fake sweetness to make one's teeth ache. Then she went up to John and kissed him. On the jaw. Because he'd moved while she approached him. Shy now? Sherlock still glowered at them.

"Mary, get to the point," John prompted, looking uncomfortable. "Why are you here?"

"Oh. Because the great detective thought he could help me. I'm being blackmailed," she revealed, clear irony in her praise of him.

"By?" the sleuth asked, professional.

"Charles Augustus Magnussen. Yeah, you wouldn't imagine a well-respected media tycoon to stoop so low, but I assure you I'm not the only one nor the most resourceful under his thumb. He wants me to get him the Medardo Rosso. And know what, I'm going to," the thief declared defiantly.

"This won't make you free," Sherlock pointed out, raising an eyebrow.

"No, but shooting him while I'm handing it over will," Mary pointed out nonchalantly. "Why, I could even bring the damned ugly bust back afterwards. Like someone else."

She made a point to rub herself against John's side, enjoying the detective's discomfort. Sherlock glowered again (because discussing a case was no time for seduction, obviously – only that). John took a tiny step back, and Mary pouted. He was hers, and he would be hers under this stranger's eyes too.

"You can't solve anything with a bullet, Mary," he said reasonably.

"But if that's why you loved me. I kept you on your toes. What did you use to say? 'The greatest enemy of love is boredom'," the blonde replied, with air quotes.

John nodded. "From Hemingway and Gellhorn, yeah. Well, that might be very true, but not boring doesn't necessarily equal murder," he countered, rolling his eyes.

"Though murder certainly helps with that," Sherlock remarked, a smirk on her lips.

For the first time, Mary grinned at her. "A kindred soul. Perfect. I like you," she declared, lively.

"Yes, well, Sherlock, any suggestions about how to deal with Magnussen?" John queried, on his way to exasperated and feeling the only sane individual here.

"Her plan is not that bad," the sleuth said, shrugging. Mary beamed. "With a few adjustments," Sherlock conceded quickly, once John had yelled her name sternly, scolding and shocked. "He's going to believe we're bringing him the bust," she explained "but he won't be killed. He'll be arrested for attempted receiving stolen goods and blackmail. I really have to urge you to denounce him. I'm sure many will follow your example."

"So he'll ruin me," Mary pointed out, unconvinced, walking up and down like a caged beast.

"We'll protect you," John replied immediately.

"Of course we will," Sherlock echoed, nodding.

"That's very sweet of you, but –" Mary objected.

"And you'll be in witness protection program," the detective added, cutting in.

"Still," Mary said, frowning.

"And we'd be forced to hunt you down if you committed murder. I have friends in Interpol. You can run, but you can't escape me," Sherlock declared with an ice-cold smile.

"Is it a challenge?" Mary queried, instinctively squaring her shoulders.

"A promise," the brunette countered simply.

Something in her expression made Mary back down, and she _never_ backed down. "Yeah. Well. Anyway, we have a bust to steal first," she said, shrugging.

"I thought we were meant to protect it," John reminded everyone.

"Magnussen won't meet us if it's not stolen. We'll simply misplace it a bit," Sherlock announced matter-of-factly.

"And we'll lose the fee for this case," the former thief pointed out. It was quite obvious, really.

"Money is of no consequence, John. I told you. I _hate_ blackmailers," the detective snapped, clearly wishing to close the conversation. John couldn't help but wonder why the matter elicited such a passion.

That night at least, to follow the plan they'd concocted, John had abandoned the Christmas-themed jumpers for a more classical (for a thief) all black attire that suited him very much, making him look less cuddly and more dangerous (not that Sherlock cared about his attire – at all).

His mobile phone beeped angrily. "Mary is still miffed that we're the ones doing it. she maintains she should be doing the stealing," he announced, reading the text.

"As you told her this morning, we're meant to protect it – and I don't trust her not to flee with it. We're not stealing. We're simply relocating it," Sherlock replied, dismissive.

"Thank you for trusting me. and you're right, of course. Relocating," John agreed, nodding with a smile on his lips.

"You're welcome," the sleuth said automatically, and found out he was right – she trusted him, instinctively and right from the start. Why, though? Sure, John saved her life – but she'd picked him to share her deepest secrets with even before that. Not having a rational justification for her choices scared her. Maybe she should mistrust him more.

John found out that as a thieving partner the sleuth was admirable. Between the two of them, they'd disabled the alarm (John – seven minutes after all), put the cameras on loop (Sherlock), picked the lock (John again, asking if he could do the honours) and taken to the air conducts not to meet any of the guards patrolling in the museum's corridors. Trigger-happy Mary might dare to walk around, not afraid to bump into anyone, but if at all possible they'd like to be unnoticed.

Only the alarm around the bust they didn't disable – they wanted the theft to be discovered and publicised, after all – and while it blared, they took back to the air vents with their loot, hiding the bust in one of the conducts. The guards soon arrived running, and they looked around, but didn't manage to understand how it had been done, because John had taken care to put back the grille after them, and ran around looking for them vainly. With a considerate good timing in leaving the air conducts and a burst of speed, they managed to escape undetected, leaving the door open after them, so nobody would imagine the bust to still be inside the museum.

They were still close when they started giggling. "That was great," John breathed. The reason he'd gotten into thievery. Not (just) the money.

"Yeah, it was," she agreed, enjoying the way his hand had slipped into hers while they ran away.

"Tomorrow morning the theft will be on the papers, and in the afternoon we can trap Magnussen," the blond remarked, eager for it to happen.

"And Mary will be safe, and you can have longer dates," the detective bit back, letting him go.

"Mary won't feel safe until Magnussen is dead, I'm afraid, and whether she feels or not, she's probably gonna leave anyway. Always been a flighty one, her. I honestly don't think there are going to be more dates," John countered, feeling the shift in his companion's mood and not liking it.

"Pity," Sherlock quipped, even if she thought the opposite.

"To be honest, I won't miss her much. For all that she was usually the one fleeing, we know that she likes me more than I like her – not a situation a person relishes. If the witness protection program sends her to the other coast, it's fine with me," he declared, shrugging. He meant it, too.

The following afternoon (after Mrs Hudson had dealt with a furious Mr Carter all morning, denying him firmly any access to the detectives) saw a disgruntled Mary with an empty case in a warehouse, ready to do 'the exchange' with compromising documents about her, while police captain Dimmock with two of his men, John and Sherlock hid in the vicinity.

Even knowing he was a blackmailer, they didn't expect Magnussen himself – who'd come with two goons, which John was eyeing warily (he could take down one, and he hoped Mary could deal with the other) – to act, swift as a snake, once the case was revealed empty. The media tycoon pulled a gun at Mary's temple, wrenching her arm viciously behind her back.

Before Dimmock could intervene, Sherlock came out, hands in the air. "Fine. We tried and we lost. Can't blame us, can you, Charlie? Don't worry, you'll get your damn ugly bust," she declared loudly.

"And who should this pretty lady be, Mary dear?" Magnussen hissed in his captive's ear.

"My lover," Mary quipped. "Jealous?"

Magnussen only smirked, all teeth, like a shark. "The Bambino Malato, please, babes," he ordered, sounding bored.

"It's not here, and I don't know where Mary put it. You won't believe what a mess our rooms are – can't find a single thing without an archaeological excavation. Mostly ny fault, to be honest, but still. Take me and let her go get it," Sherlock declared, taking a step towards them.

"Then we have a problem, my dear. Because, you see, I don't believe 'Mary' would rescue you. Only after her own interest, that's what our A.G.R.A. is. Now, if you only tell us where you put it, my men can go get it and –" Magnussen never ended that thought. There was a pop, like if someone had opened a bottle of champagne, and a red flower bloomed on his front. Shoot between the eyes, the body fell heavily over Mary, who shrugged. making it fall to the floor. At the same time, the policemen rushed to handcuff the surprised goons.

"Who was it?" Sherlock queried, turning sharply.

"I did," Dimmock said, crossing his arms, "you were just messing up and endangering the hostage even more. And if I'd come forth Magnussen would undoubtedly have shooted her outright. It was the only way."

"It was not!" the sleuth replied angrily, "once we got rid of the goons I could have disarmed him. I just needed him to let me a bit closer."

"Yes, no matter, everything ended well. Thank you officer. I think I need a stiff drink now. Can we move to a bar?" Mary interjected, batting her eyelashes at the police captain.

John didn't doubt that she'd drug the policemen to get out of having to sign forms and end up with all her information on a police file, even as the victim – that was the last thing she'd want. It was what he would have done, too. "I think I'll go to our client – he'll be anxious for the bust to get back to its proper place," he remarked nonchalantly.

"Coming," Sherlock agreed.

"Now everyone wait a minute! I'm the one who decides here," Dimmock growled. "Jones, Hunt, accompany these two gentlemen to the police station and tell your colleagues that there's a body to dispose of here. Mr. Watson, it's fine, you can go – you have a point. Miss Morstan, you're in shock, so before filling all the necessary forms I suppose I can get a drink in you – I'll accompany you to the nearest bar." (Oh, the power of eyelashes!) "But Miss Holmes, you aren't going anywhere until I've expounded in great detail how you don't take initiatives in a police operation – especially one led by me – and endanger hostages. You're coming with us. I'm still not sure I won't find some accusation that'll stick to you."

The sleuth only rolled her eyes, making a face, but gave up arguing.

For the second time in two days, Sherlock woke up from a drugged sleep. This time, though, she recognised what had happened. She hadn't eaten in over twenty hours, so there was no way it was digestion causing it. The headache (Mary must have been heavy handed with the dose) didn't help too. She left the policeman still gently snoring on the table and went home.

She needed at least a shower before the hunt.

Because surely that's what had happened. She'd fled, joined John who knew where the bust was hidden, they'd take it and sell it to the highest bidder. It wasn't anymore an ugly thing. It would be soon the thing Magnussen had been killed over. An infamous piece. Yes, John had certainly joined forces with his old (new?) lover. And she'd trusted the man. Mummy was right – she still missed things. Huge things. Well, she'd catch them in the end.

The last thing Sherlock expected was to find a cheerful John sitting on his armchair.

"You're…here," she pointed out dazedly.

"And you don't usually state the obvious. I think you need a not-drugged beverage. Tea. Tea fixes everything in the world. And a paracetamol, maybe. Headache? Yes, it's obvious. Mary has never learned the proper doses for harmless drugging. Anyway, good news. My miraculous retrieval of the bust – pity you couldn't watch my deduction show, it was a great imitation if I can say so myself – and the fact that it never left the museum somehow made up for our failure to protect. We're getting half the fee – better than nothing. Mr Carter also appreciated my suggestion to call it the Bored Bust – it sometimes gets up and leaves for a short time, but it always gets back home on its own."

Sherlock had flopped down on her armchair, letting him chatter cheerfully while he took care of her, handing her a glass of water with a paracetamol and putting the kettle on.

"I wasn't endangering the hostage," she said sulkily, once his chitchat died down.

"I know – you were trying to endanger only yourself, as usual," he agreed, shaking his head fondly. "There's one thing bugging me. Is it normal for police captains to have silencers on their guns?"

"You think he _wanted_ to shoot him – without attracting attention. But that would mean –" the sleuth replied, frowning.

"That he had a reason for shooting him. Same as Mary, probably. Dimmock is awfully young to have such a high position. It wouldn't surprise me if he'd reached it with other ways than sheer merit," John concluded, smirking.

"Well, if he did, we have no evidence, and there must have been a long line of people wanting to shoot Magnussen. I don't think we can do anything, John," the detective admitted, shrugging.

"Oh, I don't want to. I'm just wondering how to make him more polite – but probably it's not worth it. We'll see," the former thief countered, moving to the kitchen where the kettle had just whistled.

When he came back with a cup of tea for her, the flat's door opened. A woman, unannounced, took in the scene before her and scrutinized John, her eyes raking through him, up and down, before nodding and closing the door. Sherlock groaned loudly.

"What was that?" John queried, flabbergasted.

"You have my mother's blessings," the sleuth explained, very put upon. She took a sip to calm herself.

"Not that I'm not happy, but she didn't even say a word to me," the blond remarked, incredulous.

"Trust me – she didn't have to," the detective assured. She took another sip of her tea and sighed, not in exasperation but in pleasure. She could get used to John's tea.

 _P.S. The theft and restitution of Medardo Rosso's Bambino Malato (Sick Child) really happened in December 2014 at the GNAM (Galleria Nazionale di Arte Moderna e contemporanea – National Gallery of Modern and contemporary Art) in Rome. The thief was never caught. The Bambino Malato really is thought to bring bad luck to any exhibit it appears in and its owners. Also, the Loeb Boathouse exists but it didn't have any poisoning to my knowledge. That's as far as real life appears in the chapter._


	4. College Days

_Disclaimer: I do not own a single thing. A.N. Columbia University, NY, doesn't have any secret passages to my knowledge – but she does have a Baker Athletics Complex, so Sherlock definitely studied there. Also, sorry folks but next week is rerun – meaning I won't be updating like usual. I apologise._

Episode 4: College days

John didn't mean to pry, honestly. He didn't even notice that the letter was addressed to Sherlock. He saw the sender was Columbia University, and he automatically assumed case. He wondered what problem they might have encountered. Instead, it was an invitation to a ten-years-after alumni reunion. Which meant Sherlock – being twenty eight now, as John had discovered when Mrs Hudson organised her a birthday party (John had got her a book on beekeeping as a gag gift, with the inscription, "To the queen,") – had graduated obscenely early, too. Go figure; she was a genius after all. "So are you going?" he queried, curious.

The detective wordlessly glared at him for snooping into her mail.

"Yeah, sorry about that, I saw the sender and not the address. It shan't happen anymore, I swear. But that doesn't answer my question," the doctor replied, looking properly ashamed.

"No, I'm not going anywhere. And I assure you, I will not be missed," the sleuth snapped, tetchy.

"Honestly, I find that hard to believe. I'm sure you left an impression even when you were so very young. People will be wondering what you've been up to," the former thief objected, with a wide grin.

"Oh I left an impression all right. Only it was usually a bad one. I'm sure that one time I caused that explosion in the chemistry lab has not been forgotten. And being high for most of my last year didn't help my reputation," Sherlock countered matter-of-factly.

"Then you absolutely have to go. Show them all how great a woman you've become. You know how these reunions go – «Whoever tells the best story wins,» as John Quincy Adams said. Well, at least his self in the movie Amistad did, and it fits. We're watching it sometimes. And who can have a story better than yours? You ordinarily catch serial killers," John urged, grinning at her.

"Have you forgotten, John? _You_ are the one who catches serial killers – and eliminates them when he feels like it," she bit back, bitter despite the lopsided smile she tacked at the end.

"Then I'm coming with you. As your plus one. And I'll be spending the whole evening extolling how fundamental you are for the resolution of cases to anyone who'll hear me out," the doctor declared fervently. "Which is simply the truth, anyway."

"You really want me to go, don't you?" Sherlock queried, raising an eyebrow.

"Otherwise people will think you're dead of an overdose long ago, and I need you to prove to them how wrong they are. I hate people thinking badly of you, when you're so bloody amazing," John replied vibrantly.

The detective blushed, still not entirely used to the eager praise of her partner. "I still think it's a bad idea," she declared, pursing her lips. If John followed his plan people would just think she was shagging her boss to have him wrapped around her little finger, but contrarily to John, Sherlock had never cared what others thought of her, so she didn't voice her objection. And God but the man was stubborn! He'd hound her about it until she gave up anyway. So, she added, "But if you're coming I get to pick what you wear. Your dress sense is horrid."

John laughed. "Agreed."

At the actual reunion, people gave Sherlock almost afraid looks and a wide berth. She knew this was going to happen, which was why she didn't want to come in the first place. John was considering if he should leave the detective's side and mingle – he couldn't praise the sleuth if people didn't talk to him.

But then a pudgy man came over to them with a cruel smirk and remarked, "If it isn't Sherlock Holmes! I never thought I'd see you with a boyfriend at your side. Not after Vince…Val… – what was his name again? – left because of his dad's huge scandal. There was blackmail involved, wasn't it? everyone said he was part of his dad's traffics, too."

"His name was Victor, and he was my friend, not my boyfriend. And he wasn't involved with his father. Victor is a better man than you could ever hope to become," Sherlock hissed icily. That explained her hate of blackmailers, John thought – hoping to get the whole story behind Victor someday. "And John is not my boyfriend either. Actually, he's my boss," she pointed out.

"John Watson. Nice to meet you," the doctor said, but without holding out his hand to shake. His eyes were cold, and he hoped this bastard got the message to stop picking on her.

"Sebastian Wilkes," the git replied. "Oh. Now it makes sense. I was surprised to see the Ice Bitch with someone."

"Why, Seb, I didn't remember that you fancied me. then again, you've never been particularly memorable," the detective countered, smiling.

"Oh, I didn't. I was just trying to be kind," Wilkes declared, shrugging.

"Kind?" John queried sternly, raising an incredulous eyebrow.

"It's true, Ice Bitch was her nickname from those who wanted into her pants, and didn't manage to. All failures, but Vic – but he didn't brag, so I guess you might even be saying the truth that he never had you, too. He really should have boasted if he'd won you over. Anyway, I thought it was kinder than everyone else's moniker for her," Sebastian said, with a half-smile.

"Freak Holmes," Sherlock interjected, before Sebastian could say so himself. At least it'd be mentioned without Wilkes' hateful smugness. Let John know. The man had seen her experiments. It's not like he didn't know she was a freak.

"In our defence, with that trick of yours you used to announce who'd slept with whom and all our other dirty little secrets, you deserved it. It's not a surprise that no one dares to come near you. They must be terrified of having their flings exposed," Wilkes pointed out, laughing.

"While you're proud of what you are, and here you come flaunting it. and have a dull enough life not to have any secrets whose exposure you fear. How do you not die of sheer boredom?" the sleuth replied, scornful.

"You have to pity him, Sherlock. Not everyone can get an adventurous life like yours," John finally interjected.

"Hey you!" Wilkes protested loudly. He couldn't imagine being pitied.

"Sherlock's 'trick', how you call it, has made her the pillar of my detective agency. Why, she solved that serial killer case just two months ago. She was the one who figured out the killer hunted through his cab. Not me, and certainly not the police," the former thief stated, maybe a bit too loudly than strictly necessary but he hoped someone else but this git would overhear him.

"Wait – are you saying you are the _detective_ Watson? The one who solved the serial killer cabby and exposed Magnussen's blackmailing?" Sebastian blurted out, shocked.

"I am, indeed. And in both cases, it was Sherlock who did most of the work. I just reap the compliments. Without her keen eyes and logic mind I wouldn't have solved half the cases I did. She's just too modest to claim her due laurels," John declared in earnest.

"I'm not modest," the detective grumbled, rolling her eyes.

Suddenly all conversations were interrupted by a high-pitched scream. Sherlock and John ran outside, and saw a tall, redhead woman clearly traumatized by the human body hanging from the tower. From the spire of the tower of Teachers College to be precise.

Sherlock's eyes shone with excitement. "Aren't you happy to have come now?" John whispered teasingly in the ear of his companion.

"This awful reunion just turned interesting!" the detective replied, fixing the dead body with enthusiasm.

John took control of the situation, walking over to the screaming woman and saying, "I understand your shock, but please, calm down. I'm John Watson, of the Watson detective agency – you might have heard of us – and between mine and my best colleague's efforts _ Sherlock Holmes, I think you might know each other – this mystery will be solved in a flash. Now, do you have an idea about the identity of the victim? Did you know him?"

"It's Hector. Hector Alistair. But he should have been in the game lab, not up there. But what did you mean mystery? Didn't he hang himself?" the hysterical woman queried.

"Hector might have been a self-centred jock, and I think he didn't change much with the years, but agreeing to meet you in private to renew old flings and make you find him like this instead sounds oddly rude, even for him, don't you think so too, Lynette?" the sleuth interjected flatly, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm a married woman! Who says I was looking for a hook-up?" the woman – Lynette – hissed indignantly.

"Sherlock does, and I've learned to trust her completely. I'm not a priest. I won't blame you. But you'd agree that looking forward to imminent sex is not the mindset of a suicide. Do not worry. We can solve this. Just let us do our work."

While they went to examine the body, John whispered excitedly, "We're going to do things in reverse this time. I'll solve the case and you'll take the credit. It's high time we even things out a bit."

"Yes, well, thank you John, lovely thought, but…" Sherlock whispered back, holding in a laugh at the ridiculous idea.

"You don't believe I can solve a case. I've studied your methods, you know? I'll make you a wager: I'll solve this case before you, my dear consulting detective," the doctor declared hotly.

"And what would this wager entail?" she queried, curious.

"If you lose, you come with me for a weekend to Paris. You've not taken a holiday since I've known you, it's time for you to learn how to relax. And you? What do you want as your prize?" the former thief countered, with a winning smile.

"A year of your life," the sleuth quipped with a lopsided grin.

John shook his head in fond exasperation. "Sherlock…I hate to have to inform you that indentured servitude is out of fashion like deerstalker hats."

"Not that, silly. I get bored, and you have so many tales to tell, but insist behaving like a tight-lipped British man. I want to know what you've been up to for a year of your life. I can deduce that you've had such an interesting existence, but I can't deduce the stories. And I want them," the detective explained cheerfully.

They examined the body – who could decidedly not have hanged himself. And that's what they declared to the crowd who'd naturally formed when they got back. Murder. Sherlock tried not to be too enthusiastic announcing it. It was hard to do.

Lynette took them to a corner, and said, looking nervously around, "So Hector's been really murdered? I have to explain why I didn't want to believe it. Ten years ago, we were the best of friends – Hector, Crazy Jim, Declan Parker, Alice Abbington, and I. We were always daring each other to do absurd things – anything not to be bored. Then one day Jim came up with the idea of invading Teachers College, mess up the rooms and conclude it with fireworks from the roof. He loved fireworks so much. But while we were still messing around, he ran further along than us – and when we found him, he'd hanged himself from the tower, just like Hector was now. Jim had never been the most stable person – they didn't call him Crazy Jim for anything. That's why when I saw Hector there – well, I had a terrible déja vu, so I thought – it's happening again."

"Thank you for sharing this with us, it certainly sheds a new light on the case," John said politely. Then he grinned at Sherlock, adding, "Let's ditch this and go to Paris. I've solved it. It was the ghost. After all, Hector wouldn't have brought anyone with him since he anticipated sex, and if he was alone but that can't be suicide –"

The detective laughed. "You'll have to do better than this to earn your holiday. I don't believe in ghosts."

John pouted. "And what would you say if I told you I have a ghost in my family? An Army captain."

"Heroically died in war, no doubt?" Sherlock teased.

"Actually invalided home, became a serial gambler for the thrill of it and eventually knifed down in the back by someone he'd lost a wager against he couldn't pay. Waiting for one of his descendants to win an impossible wager," the former thief admitted, grinning.

"Does cheating count?" the sleuth asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Definitely."

Just then Declan Parker, white-faced, went over to them and mumbled, "There's a ghost haunting us, I tell you. I wandered into Teachers College – you know, memory lane, I used to date a girl who studied there, we always met secretly in the art room – and then I heard a scream. It might have been Hector, of course, but it didn't sound entirely like him. It sounded – oh, you'll think me mad. And then I saw a shadow, and it was - I can't say who it was, but I've been popping anxiolytics since then."

"Thank you for the clues, Declan," Sherlock sighed, extending her hand, while John looked smug.

"No, no, that's how the feds get you, poisoned needle hidden in the palm," the man raved.

"But we're not feds, are we?" John interjected, in his best placating tone. "John Watson, consulting detective. We only want to find the truth, not threaten anyone."

Declan's eyes shifted, uneasy, as if he didn't believe him at all. Then he grumbled, "When you show me documents _and_ fingerprints, I'll believe you."

Sherlock couldn't help the shadow of a smile from playing on her lips. She'd never got around to knowing John's true identity. She could take his fingerprints from the flat and covertly run them through the police's database, Lestrade would do her the favour, but she didn't want to pry. She wanted him to be open with her – to fully trust her. She didn't even understand why she did. She shrugged. "No matter, thanks, we really have to keep investigating now." John trailed behind her.

The Dean had arrived, as well as the police, and he came straight towards John, frowning. "You're the one who denied it could be suicide?" he uttered confrontationally.

"Because it wasn't," the former thief said firmly, "I'm a doctor _and_ a detective – I know these things. John Watson, pleased to meet you."

"But have you been informed that there's already been a suicide there? Are you sure you couldn't have misinterpreted the clues?" the Dean queried, stubborn. He didn't introduce himself. He assumed everyone inside _his_ university would know who he was.

"Yes, but why don't you tell me your side of it?" the doctor prompted, more amiably, hoping to appease the man, outraged by the possibility of murder in his university.

"It was a nightmare. The day before, my wife's most precious ring – musgravite, rarer than diamonds – had been stolen. Then, we had the suicide in Teachers College – by a student who should not have crossed its threshold at all. Then one of our art students' pieces who'd been left to dry in the art room – it was a ceramic piece – disappeared, and then the following night, once again, the Teachers College was invaded at night and its rooms devastated. I very nearly searched for a new job," the man sighed.

"I'm glad you didn't. You might have shed a great light on the case," the doctor thanked him warmly.

"Umm…John? Didn't the police take the body down already?" Sherlock interjected then.

"They said they would," the Dean confirmed.

"There's a body up there now. Our killer might be more daring than we'd surmise. Or does the Dean want to state it's another case of serial suicides?" the detective sneered, spiteful. "It doesn't surprise me than the murderer managed to act under the policemen's nose. Oh, John, it's great!" she added enthusiastically.

There was, indeed, a second body hanging. Seeing it made the Dean faint. As for captain Gregson, who'd just arrived on the scene, he blushed a brilliant crimson when it was pointed out to him – and agreed with a sigh to accept their help. The new victim was no one else than Declan Parker.

They went once again to examine the old and new crime scene, and after a second, John took Sherlock aside. "Paris, here we come! Case solved," he whispered excitedly. "I found a name tag. Clumsy killer, uh?"

"What does it say?" she queried, clearly disappointed. Where was the fun in solving things like that?

"Jim Hawkins," he declared, smiling.

"That's the man who died ten years ago, John," the sleuth pointed out, a satisfied gleam in her eyes.

"You sure?" he whispered.

"Crazy Jim Hawkins stalked me for a while, back then. I've been relieved when he died, honestly. Very sure," she revealed, shrugging.

"And do they know that?" John quipped, starting to believe once more his preternatural theory. They discovered soon that the place was rigged, so whatever sound or shadow had scared Declan made sense at least. The culprit was a woman, of that much Sherlock was sure, but he still needed a clue to put a name to her.

When they noticed a blonde, petite woman trying to get away, John stopped her. "Sorry Miss, but we are to remain here until the police has interrogated us."

"Like hell! My body's gonna be the next up there. I'm not staying," she hissed angrily.

"What makes you say that?" Sherlock queried calmly.

"Because before I was Candy Sheen, I was Alice Abbington. Someone doesn't believe we don't have it, I think. Though why so late is a mystery. I'm next, I tell you!" the woman grit out, fear mixed with her rage.

"Black widow Alice Abbington?" the detective asked, an enthusiastic gleam in her eyes.

"That was a complete misunderstanding. Had to change my name when it became infamous, though," the blonde replied, shrugging.

"So you're…a ghost," John pointed out, looking at her suspiciously. He didn't believe her claim about the mysterious 'something' the killer would be searching for. That looked like a red herring.

"Not yet, but I will be if I don't leave," she reiterated stubbornly.

"Don't worry. We'll solve this case before it can happen," the doctor assured, grinning.

Sherlock rolled her eyes at her boss' antics. What made John so sure? If they didn't find the last clue – it's true that what happened ten years ago was clear now, but who was killing tonight?

And then, while the doctor was still occupied reassuring Miss Abbington, she disappeared. Go figure. John's past career had luckily made him sharp-eyed enough to notice the well-hidden entrance of a secret passage. Bet there was where she'd gone. He dived in and, as expected, reached Sherlock in the tight, dark corridor. "Does this reach Teachers College?" he whispered, instinctively keeping his voice low.

"Among other places, certainly, given the inclination and turn of it. I guess that our esteemed police had some justification for not noticing the killer coming and going," she replied, shrugging.

John and his gun (why had he even brought a gun at an alumni reunion?) passed in front, with some maneuvering and brushing against each other in the small passage (if she held his breath was only to make herself smaller and help him pass, not because she liked it, oh no).

"I have a proposal," he murmured in the dark, searching her hand.

"What?" Sherlock queried, curious as always.

"Let's cancel the bet and just give each other our prizes," John offered, grinning.

"You'd give away a year worth of your secrets?" she countered, surprised.

"For a romantic weekend with you? Gladly," the former thief replied honestly.

And the sleuth was flattered, and wanted – oh, she wanted to give in. But he was a charmer, no doubt with a girl in every corner of the world, and she wouldn't be just his last conquest. So instead she bit back, "And leave your ancestor to suffer? Shame on you, John. We're seeing this bet to its end."

After a few moments, "I'm stuck," he complained, blushing in awkwardness. His foot had caught on something and now their advance was impossible. The detective flicked her lighter to see and help…and they were from the darkness further down the passage. John shot back, while ducking, Sherlock flattening herself on top of him. _(Mmmm…that was nice_ , thought the ex soldier. _Might need to be shot at more often.)_ Then the shots died down, quick steps running away. With a last tug, his foot came unstuck – and his trousers' hem ripped. They ran forward, giving chase, blood singing in excitement…and found Lynette once again.

"Caught you," John declared sternly, gun pointing at her.

She yelped loudly. But her body language was all wrong for a trapped assassin. Sherlock quickly patted her down. "She doesn't have a gun, John. And we didn't find one on the way here," the sleuth announced. "There must have been some other exit we haven't noticed on the way."

"Of course I don't have a gun," Lynette protested vibrantly.

"Then what are you doing here?" the doctor blurted out, trying to understand.

"Hiding! I'm not stupid. Jim told me of this place – he and his little sister found it by chance when they came to visit the university the first time. And this has something to do with Jim – which makes me a target," the woman explained, as if it was most obvious.

"Of course it has to do with Jim. You and your friends stole the Dean's wife's ring and then you killed Jim. Did you have a falling out? Did he not want to share the loot with you all? That's clear enough," Sherlock agreed, looking almost bored.

"He hid the ring and told us that was going to be his little sister's dowry, and that we wouldn't see a cent. Declan and Hector got angry and killed him. We got scared and ran then, but afterwards we went back to Teachers College – he had to have hid it there, as it was not in his room or his locker or any of his usual hideouts – and still, we never found it," Lynette admitted quietly.

Of course she said the already murdered people had killed Jim. Sherlock was pretty sure they'd all ganged up on him, but ten years later there'd be no evidence. (And anyway, hadn't she been happy of the news at the time – somewhere in the drug haze after Vic leaving? The drug had kept her from even thinking about investigating the matter. A sliver of…not guilt, but disappointment in herself surfaced, but she quickly shot it down. Not now.)

"Well, someone knew or suspected. Maybe she searched for evidence until now, maybe she was otherwise busy, or she thought now was the perfect moment to act – anniversaries, sentiment, something like that," the detective explained for John's benefit. Just in case he hadn't followed.

Someone who had lost an earring – she'd noticed it, a sparkle of dark green in the shadows of the passage, and it wasn't Lynette's. She wore agate.

They went back, found the exit their murderer must have used – and they were soon in the middle of the party. Apparently the people had decided that two puny murders were not reason enough not go on with their plans of drinking, showing off to each other and having a jolly good time. Why, they'd even gone on with the election of the Homecoming Queen.

She was on stage, wearing a diamond tiara that was at odds with her own set of emerald jewels…a set which lacked an earring.

"It's her!" John whispered excitedly, but minding his promise to let Sherlock have the show, pointing his gun at the woman - but, of course, the sleuth had already noticed and didn't need any prompting to yell so.

Gregson, who'd left the crime scene and wandered around in search of clues (and maybe was a bit too much interested to the queen candidates, considering how close he was to stage) was quick to act and arrest her.

Then the police captain asked the hows, and whys, which were answered partly by Sherlock and partly by his own loose-tongued prisoner (who still had the gun on her, and if the captain hadn't been so quick to obey them and handcuff her there could have been a showdown with who knows how many collateral damages).

Janine Wells (she'd taken her mother's last name), little sister of Crazy Jim Hawkins, had gone to his same university, investigated the matter of the death of her beloved brother who'd been 'betrayed' by his friends and finally concocted a plan that seemed perfect to her to give them all his same death. She was just sorry that she couldn't find them all before being caught.

Later on, back in the peace of their own home, Sherlock complimented her flatmate. "You're really starting to become good, John. I purposefully didn't point out to you that earring, but you noticed anyway."

"What? Which earring? What are you talking about? No, no. I noticed she had a gun. It was well hidden, I'll give you that, but I've been in a warzone. As a soldier, I was trained to notice supposed civilians who hid weapons – they might be terrorists," John explained, looking taken aback.

"You'll have to train me in that," the sleuth demanded at once. She noticed a lot, but she hadn't noticed the gun. Mummy was right. She still missed things she absolutely shouldn't.

"Sure," the doctor agreed amiably.

"So we solved it at the same time from different clues. It's a draw," Sherlock added. She was disappointed. But because she hadn't won…or because she hadn't lost?

"Six months of tales for a day holiday in a place of my choosing?" John offered, solomonic.

"Seems fair," the sleuth agreed, smiling. Then she added, "We are detectives. We should solve cases if we can right?" But she sounded oddly…displeased.

"We just did," the former thief pointed out, puzzled.

"Yes, but I can solve it _entirely,_ " she remarked, pursing her lips. "At least I think."

"What?" the doctor queried. What was unsolved yet?

Sherlock took the teapot from the back of the top cupboard. This was not their usual teapot. This was the teapot of the grand occasions, when she had guests she wanted to creep out (Mycroft hated it), or if she was down and wanted something beautiful to cheer herself up. This teapot was an anatomically correct heart, in a reddish-brown colour, complete with aorta and vena cava. And John stared at it with the same charmed wonder Sherlock herself felt for this beauty. It broke her heart to have to do this.

"I stole this from the art room of Teachers College ten years ago. It would have never been as appreciated by anyone else – that's what I thought. And well, I had spent all my allowance on drugs and couldn't buy it from the author. I was still convinced I was making the teapot a favour – I love it," she explained, putting off the moment to act.

With that, she deliberately dropped it to the ground, where it broke in dozens of pieces…and there, stuck in the vena cava, was the blue-green musgravite ring of the Dean's wife.

John let out an exclamation of wonder. It was like a magic trick! He gently took the ring – they'd give it back with some fabricated explanation and their already sterling reputation would become that of miracle workers.

"They realized that Jim had hid his loot in Teachers College and ransacked the art room…but I had already popped in and taken the teapot I'd instantly fallen in love with by then. Jim must have seen that it had yet to harden completely and hid it inside, thinking such a peculiar art piece would be easy to keep track of, but he didn't consider how angry his partners in crime would be. Pity it's broken, though," Sherlock remarked, sounding honestly sad over the ruined crockery. It was silly of her, of course. But it had been beautiful!

"Yeah well, good thing I'm a surgeon. I know how to put back a heart – even one in so many pieces. Do we have any superglue?" he said cheerfully. The hopeful, grateful look on Sherlock's face was worth of a much greater feat than this.


	5. Watson the beach?

_Disclaimer: I own nothing (still)._

Episode 5: Watson the beach?

"Remind me again why you're taking this holiday to the other side of the States," Sherlock demanded, a not-pout (but something that was very close to one) on her full lips, "especially since we'd just had one."

"That's not a holiday," John objects, not for the first time (and really, calling 'holiday' the one day not-date he won is atretching things a but far). "It's a publicity move – of some sort. And I was asked to participate, and the cause is good."

"Yes, because the reintroduction in Oregon of sea otters in the wild is such a fundamental issue," the detective snarled. She couldn't simply admit that she'd gotten used to her…boss' (yeah, boss worked) presence and didn't want to have to give it up. But the silly environmentalists had asked for his support, she had no excuse to follow him, and so she tried to guilt him into staying. Simple logic.

"They're cute critters. Having more cute critters in the world can only do it good," he replied, mirth in his eyes. He couldn't mention the reason he'd probably accept to uphold such a cause even without what he'd surprisingly managed to keep a secret from the detective still. Sherlock might very well turn him in if he teased her about the evident likeness between her and said cute critters.

"And if we have a case while you're off gallivanting?" the sleuth countered, using the best bait in her arsenal for the adrenaline addict.

The one John would have fallen for, if not for his little secret. "I'm sure you'll manage," he said instead, shrugging.

Sherlock huffed. Of course she0d manage, she0d always managed before she knew he even existed. But she wouldn't like it as much, if she had to go back to solving cases alone. To her shame, she had to admit – if strictly to herself – that it was different going on a case knowing someone always had her back, no matter what. "Then you better go, or you'll lose your flight," she prompted, flopping on the sofa and giving him a very cold shoulder.

"I'll see you soon," John said, taking his trolley and leaving with a little sigh. Now she was going to sulk – who knows until when? Hopefully she'd forgive him by the time he was back.

A secret smile played on his lips during the flight. The doctor thought back to the emails he'd received, containing no more than otter images and adverts of the project and a signature. The addresses of these emails were very interesting, though. They read _Discovered something big, Please Help, More to follow. On paper, Don't wanna get hacked_. When he'd received the invitation to participate to the Sea Otter Reintroduction Committee he'd been very pleased indeed.

This was a case. A case he should have mentioned to Sherlock, but he thought that if he could work out a case all by himself, he'd win her admiration _._ Admiration was a good start for what he hoped.

When John arrived at the reunion of the committee – of which he'd been offered the position of honorary chairman (celebrity brought good things) – he smiled and shook hands and expressed his ardent love of otters. Mostly the members looked like arrogant, stuck-up, possibly obsessive people. He was very glad that he hadn't brought Sherlock along. He could just imagine the effect a few well placed deductions could have had on the company. The only normal and honestly friendly people seemed Bill and his wife Jordan – he was a director and would be making a documentary on the return of the otters in the wild when the project came through. If she wasn't here with her husband, he'd have loved to flirt with Jordan a bit afterwards, but such nice plans were not destined to go through.

John was surprised when a heavily built, bearded mam he'd still not been introduced to physically cornered him. "You're a detective, Mr Watson," he stated, almost growling.

"That's my job, yes," John replied, smiling amiably.

"I am a congressman, I have a reputation. I demand to know if there's even the shadow of a suspect on this project," the man continued, sounding outraged.

"I assure you I'm here only for my love of otters, Mr…" the doctor trailed off. As far as he knew, everyone here was a suspect (of what he wasn't certain yet). He wouldn't discover his game.

"Carruthers. You'll hear of me," the man said proudly.

"I'm sure," John agreed, with another bland smile.

Much more pleasant was the blonde, buxom widow, "Elaine Winter, millions inherited and yet so desperately bored," who smiled, winked at him and suggested sneaking out of the reunion. John agreed – if he heard another arrogant bastard drone about the unfairness of the lack of wild sea otters in the area he'd go mad, no matter how much he liked the critters.

"You know, today we should have discussed the report on the island we want to turn into an otter sanctuary, but our consultant never sent it. What do you say? Shall we go see him and check what kept him? He's my friend," Elaine prompted.

"Sure," John agreed easily. He was investigating this woman, and if she was into threesomes, well that was data, as Sherlock would call it, wasn't it? he very much didn't expect her friend to be the same man who'd signed the emails he'd received, and only barely managed to hide his knowledge of the name. Things were about to turn much more interesting than he'd thought. They rang the bell, but no one answered.

"Maybe he's ill?" his companion queried, frowning. "He always keeps a spare key under the doormat, shall we help ourselves in and check if he needs help?"

"I like how you think," John replied, grinning. He would get some more clues soon, and maybe a full explanation. Of course, he didn't expect to find the owner of the house drowned in his own tub.

In the meantime, on the other side of the States, Sherlock was bored. She'd changed password to John's laptop, just because she could (he'd have to come begging to her if he ever wanted to use it again, there was no way he could guess the apparently random string of numbers and letters), and then checked Oregonian press online. Only to check he wasn't botching things up, obviously. And apparently he was. 'Murder, says boffin John Watson', proclaimed the newest titles. How did he _dare_ go on a crime scene without her? It wasn't fair. They were a team.

Apparently someone else objected to John's behaviour, because soon a meek Mrs Hudson had to introduce (well, the man walked past and almost over her – which made the sleuth not a little angry) congressman – he wouldn't let anyone forget that fact – Carruthers, who demanded a full retraction. He angrily stated this was a ploy to bring shame to their commendable project and that, to boot, Mr Watson was holding onto documents that rightfully belonged to the committee, as in the dead man's diary had been found the annotation that the report on the future otters' haven's condition had been sent to one John Watson.

Sherlock assured him that they were not withholding any documents, illegally or otherwise, and promised to promptly send the report over should their agency receive it, but she also defended her boss' "criminal intuition…errr, knowledge of criminals and their methods," assuring that John had to have serious clues to make such an accusation. At least she bloody hoped so – she was going to have his hide if he was wrong (not that she said as much). But her first instinct was to trust John and his judgement.

The report of the murder victim seemed to be in high demand, because the congressman had just departed that the widow heiress of the Winter fortune came over, cooing about how "dear John" had apparently forgotten to bring it to the reunion and that she'd really like to know why he was such a workaholic that he saw murders everywhere. "And I so tried to help him relax," the blonde sighed.

Sherlock repressed a stab of jealousy – they weren't together, it didn't matter what Watson did and with whom – but firmly gave her the same assurances she'd offered to Carruthers…and then she went to Bellevue, hoping the cute, stammering pathologist there would have some organs for her to play with to lighten her mood. (Yes, she was not above using the man's obvious crush on her. If he was too blind to see she wasn't interested it wasn't her fault.)

Now, she'd never been the most tidy person, but coming back from Bellevue (with a set of five ears which could prove interesting) to find the flat veritably ransacked (and, after a rapid check, both their pc stolen – and only these) made her twitch. She called for Mrs Hudson – more to be sure she was fine than any other reason.

When the old woman saw the mess, she sighed deeply. "Oh, Sherlock. I realise you miss him, dear, but isn't this going a bit too far?"

"Mrs Hudson, it wasn't me. I swear," the detective stated in earnest.

"Oh," their secretary breathed. "Do you think this is tied to whatever case John has started in Oregon that caused all that flurry this morning? Will he be safe?"

"John knows how to take care of himself, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock assured, shrugging.

John would be glad for the vote of confidence, had he known…even if at the moment he'd been slightly kidnapped by a nameless thug and brought to meet 'boss' – which was someone the former thief recognized. "Oh hello Mr Woodley. How are things going after the swindling of the century?" he said cheerfully.

"The papers blew that totally out of proportions," Woodley – who rather looked like a sallow-faced rat – lamented. "And I already paid for that."

"Not entirely, I bet. There are a lot of back taxes to be repaid involved in your kind of crime," John remarked casually.

"How sweet of you to worry over me, Mr Watson. But don't worry. I have my ways, and my funds, and there is something even for you if you do not cross my plans," Woodley replied, insinuating.

"Let's talk business, Mr Woodley. How much would I be getting? And in exchange for what?" the doctor asked, perfectly conscious that antagonizing him would only worsen his position.

"I like your attitude, John," the swindler declared, grinning. "25000 dollars for the report on the island that's to become the new otter sanctuary. You won't get a better price."

"You of course understand that I don't have it on me," John pointed out reasonably.

"Naturally," Woodley agreed. "Oh, and a friendly warning, John – don't let yourself be fooled by Elaine. She's the treacherous sort. When I found her she was a rough diamond, and I polished her, made her into a lady – but did I gain something from her? Oh, no!"

"Thank you for the advice. I'd get going, if it's all right with you and Brawn," the former thief responded, keeping a polite smile on his face.

"Don't call Dom Brawn. He was a priest once, you know? He knows Latin and all that jazz. Then he found his true calling," Woodley scolded, ending in a laugh.

"Of course. Sorry, Dom. Bye, everyone," John acknowledged, leaving with a certain hastiness. His plan to solve a case by himself had just crashed. This was something he couldn't solve on his own. If Sherlock had been the first on the crime scene she'd have solved it on the spot, he didn't doubt it. What had he been thinking?

Besides, the victim writing he'd sent John the report would send any rivals or accomplices Woodley had back home. He owed Sherlock at least a warning (and fine, yes, he missed her already – he very well couldn't tell her as much, though).

"As Dorothy would say, there's no place like home…" he proclaimed, entering the flat back after a long flight full of questions. "…Or not?" he concluded, looking around at the chaos, much worse than the sleuth's usual clutter.

"Mrs Hudson says she's our landlady and secretary, not housekeeper," the detective complained loudly. "Apparently being robbed doesn't warrant any help. To be fair, her hip has been bothering her more than usual lately."

"We've been robbed?" John echoed, in an undignified yelp. But hey, he was shocked. And worried. Sherlock seemed certainly fine, but what if she was not?

"Yes, keep up, John. They took just our laptops, though obviously they searched for something more, but never mind that. What matters is that. You. Took. A. Case. Without. Me," the sleuth scolded, clearly outraged.

"Yes, well, it sort of came up," John stammered, clearly apologetic. Better not disclose his earlier projects, lest Sherlock decided to punish him somehow. He'd already thoughtlessly endangered her (what had he been _thinking_?) and making her more cranky was not in his best interest. What was certain was that the warning he'd come to deliver was a bit late. So instead he prompted, grinning, "Come back to Oregon with me. We have a hornet's nest to stir."

"Obviously," the sleuth agreed, popping into her room and coming back with an already packed suitcase.

John had to participate to the next reunion of the committee, anyway, and smuggling in Sherlock so she could covertly observe all them – and presumably divine which were involved in the murder (which had to be only the last link of some sort of bigger, more devious plan) probably by how they buttoned their shirts – was fun.

When he saw that the committee was already debating, at his arrival, whether to buy congressman Carruthers' island to convert into an otter sanctuary, he interjected quickly. After a short, passionate and altogether rambling rant about the necessity of protecting otters for future generations' sake, he smirked and dropped his bomb. "And anyway, I've got your consultant's report on the island. Don't you want to see it before investing so much money in it for the otters' good?"

If Woodley wanted it, he bet that anyone involved in the murder would want it too, and just looking on while it was mentioned Sherlock should be able to figure something out.

A chorus of voices agreed with John quite enthusiastically.

"I've got an offer of 25000 dollars for it. Someone wants to top that offer?" he challenged the room, grinning.

All the same voices this time rose in outrage, but none higher than that of congressman Carruthers, who promised lawsuits and due retribution for this clear attempt at blackmail.

John left the reunion without replying to any of them. "So?" he asked Sherlock, joining her in her hideout.

"I have a theory, but I still lack some data. I'm going to bully the victim's autopsy report out of the local pathologist. I'm trusting you. If you're accosted – and I think you will be – just follow your instinct. It's served you well until now," the sleuth replied, smiling.

"Thanks. I will," the doctor assured, smiling back. He'd have liked to know who was he supposed to particularly look for, but he'd started this case without telling her so he couldn't very well complain for her reserve now.

The detective had just departed, when Elaine Winter came to find him, a serious look on her face. "Oh John, I'm so glad I finally found you. I need some information, and I hope you will tell me – we've become good friends, haven't we?" she said, winking at him.

"I will tell you something for free, dear. Stop using me," he declared, more harshly than she clearly expected.

"What?" she yelped, faking shock admirably.

"Look, I'm not saying you've killed that man or anything, but you're definitely more involved than you want to admit," John replied. One didn't have to be Sherlock to figure that out. The way she'd 'pulled' him, brought him to 'check on a dear friend'…they were all very deliberate actions. "I'll even bet that you wanted me to be the one to claim – following all the supposed evidence – that it was accidental death. I'd be a stranger, an independent witness, and that fit your plans nicely. But I messed your plot by recognising the murder. I'll tell you again – you can't use me."

"No, apparently not, but you can use me instead," Elaine murmured, touching his arm. "And even if you don't like me as much as I thought, and I'll have you know that jury's still out on that, I'm worth millions. I can be properly grateful to you for your help. Fine, I won't ask, I'll tell you – it's Woodley who offered to buy the report, right?"

"Got it in one, sister," the former thief admitted, smirking. Sherlock had said to trust his instinct, not keep his secrets at any cost. "He said you have a past," he mentioned airily.

"Yes, we do. When I was young, foolish and naïve. Oh please John. I loathe that horrible man. He's been trying to have me in his power for years. Whatever you do, do not give him the report. I can't explain, but I need this initiative to go through. Please, my dear. Be my knight in shining armour – and you might get the princess," the widow cooed.

John barely held in a snort at the idea of this clearly coguarish woman as a swooning princess. "I've not given it to Woodley yet. I promise I won't act rashly," he countered.

She pouted – and unlike Sherlock, she really couldn't pull that off. She looked ridiculous – probably because her ruby painted lips were clearly filled by a plastic surgeon. "That's not the promise I want."

"It's all you're going to get…for now," he replied, shrugging. He abandoned her, unheeding of her further attempts to either persuade or seduce him. The former thief was all for a bit of seduction on the side of any job, but he did not take desperate people who were clearly trying to manipulate him. Even he had standards, for God's sake. Instead, he went back to the crime scene. Where – like he expected – he found and excited Sherlock.

"John! John! John I got the autopsy report. I have to praise your instinct. Sure, you didn't properly deduced what happened, missed most of everything that happened to you, but you always point me in the right direction. You're a light conductor, John, and a magnificent one, at that," she ranted, clearly eager.

"Thanks?" he replied, not really certain if he'd just been praised, insulted or both.

"Anyway, I've been around here to check for clues, but I'm done, and I suggest we move to the true crime scene," the sleuth prompted, dragging him by the arm.

"The true crime scene?" the doctor echoed, unsure of what she meant.

"In the water inside the victim's lungs there were traces of chemical compounds. Pcb, to be precise. Polychlorinated biphenyl. They're not normally present in your tub's water," the detective revealed, eyes shining with glee.

"The area the victim was analysing – the one he had to write that blasted report about!" John exclaimed, figuring it out.

"Obviously," she agreed. "Come on, John, we have a trip to make!"

They realized soon that they were being tailed by someone in a plum colored car, but that only made them both giggle like teenagers. A few daring manoeuvrings afterwards – Sherlock would definitely not pass any driving safety tests, but John didn't mind – they managed to shake their tail. "I love…how you drive," John blurted out.

His companion laughed, elated. Not even the two flat tires they got not long afterwards (and isn't two a bit too much, even with the sleuth's wild driving style?) can dampen their enthusiasm. They found a garage a garage only a few metres far. A garage who should have been closed years ago, since it didn't even have tires to change theirs. But apparently these were of an odd type of tires (first time John heard that). anyway, they were offered a courtesy car, and if it seemed like that should be rather heeded for the breaker's yard instead, well, beggars can't be choosers. John even thanked the man who ran the garage, to cover for Sherlock's spiteful glare.

They went back to the steep road they were on, all turns, down the cliff towards the rocky beach underneath…only to discover at the second turn that the breaks didn't work. "Out!" Sherlock yelled urgently. They'd barely jumped out of that wreck that the car tumbled down off the side of the road, crashing.

"Someone do not want us to get there, and is going to a lot of trouble to ensure it," John remarked, still a bit breathless. Their tires hadn't become flat on their own – someone had to have left something sharp on the road.

"Stop stating the obvious, John, and start walking," the detective prompted, huffing.

"Of course. At least the sight is good," he replied, smiling. And if he was looking at her instead of the breathtaking scenery when he said it, nobody remarked on it.

There was a small village nestled near the beach, in front of the future otter sanctuary island. Sherlock walked all over on the beach, randomly getting to his knees to examine God knew what. John hoped she had found some clues, as he certainly couldn't see any – it seemed a perfectly regular beach. But when she declared the victim had been drowned in a particular cove, her companion knew not to doubt her. Nothing was on the beach – but if she said so, it certainly had been.

Afterwards the detective strode with purpose into the village and to the mayor's office, demanding to see the local land register. John – and his undeserved fame – backed her up, so they were allowed to. The sleuth clucked her tongue but didn't seem surprised to see the page relative to the island had been torn off the book.

A quick description of the people involved to an helpful employee revealed that Elaine Winter had consulted the same book only a week ago. It was time for another chat with the widow – and this time, John would have had Sherlock at his side.

He texted her – she'd given him her number as soon as they met – and was invited back at her villa. "I didn't think you'd bring anyone. Our dealings were meant to be…private," she purred, managing to sound insinuating.

"Yes, well, that was before you tried to have us both killed," John grumbled, glaring at her. There'd been absolutely nothing between them – he didn't want Sherlock getting the wrong idea.

"What? No, I didn't! It must have been Woodley – he's the villain in all this!" Elaine protested loudly.

"Oh, he's certainly involved, more than John thinks maybe, but he's not alone in this. Allow me to state things for you, if you're too embarrassed for it," Sherlock interjected coldly.

"State what?" Elaine queried, suspicious.

"The island was yours. You need this project to go through because you need money to give Woodley to pay back his taxes and can't use your money, as most of it is in a trust fund you can barely touch. Now, why would you pay him? You have a past. And Woodley keeps around a former priest. I'd bet it's the priest who married you. You've never been Mrs Winter, were you? Not legally. I don't think a bigamous wife should inherit by their second husband. But congressman Carruthers is helping you in your scam – what does he get out of this? No matter, we'll find out soon," Sherlock revealed.

"Are you a witch?" the widow accused, paling like a sheet.

"No, just a bloody magnificent detective," John replied, smiling proudly at the sleuth. "Why involve Carruthers, anyway? Couldn't you sell the island?"

"To the committee I founded? How would that look? Woodley found Carruthers for me, and I followed his plan. I bet he's the one who murdered my poor friend!" Elaine whimpered, pleading for them to believe her.

Sherlock took an envelope from her purse and waved it under the widow's nose. "The famous report," she announced cheekily. "But we'll need to solve the murder before giving it up. Please organise a meeting with all the people involved in this silly little scheme for tomorrow at noon. As soon as the case ends satisfactorily, we'll stop holding onto this. Also, we want our laptops back."

Elaine tried to snatch it out of her hands, but failed. "Fine. I suppose that's a reasonable request – since I am innocent," she huffed.

"See you tomorrow," Sherlock added, leaving regally, John on her trail. As soon as they left the widow's villa, the former thief queried, "Now you can tell me. What was in the envelope?"

"Our electric bill," the sleuth admitted, smirking. "Kudos for realising I was faking it."

"I'm starting to know you, my dear," the doctor replied, an odd mix of smug and fond. He loved Sherlock's talent for acting. Why hadn't she become a Hollywood star was a mystery (well, not – she'd be bored to death).

The following day saw them all – Woodley, Dom, Carruthers, the widow (though John supposed she was Mrs Woodley, but bigamy made things confusing), John and Sherlock. Their stolen laptops sat on the table.

"The report," Carruthers growled, frowning.

"After the case is solved. Who's going to take the fall?" John replied, smirking.

"Not me. I have a gun. I wouldn't have drowned the victim," Dom hissed, showing his weapon and waving it around without impressing anyone.

"Or just ensured they fell off the road – do not worry, no hard feelings. But it is true, I don't think you could know where the victim kept his spare key," John agreed, nodding.

"It wasn't me!" Elaine yelped immediately. "Do not try to pin this on me!"

"Of course not," Sherlock snorted. "You're not strong enough to haul a waterlogged dead body taller than you back to his home, and while you've been all together in the scam, the way you're accusing each other means this wasn't a concerted act. You'd have prepared alibi at least. Among four people there should be at least two functioning neurons to rub together."

"Hey I just wanted my money, I couldn't care less about the details. I didn't even know the committee had hired a consultant," Woodley protested loudly.

"A consultant found with PCB in his lungs. Which means the area he was examining is polluted. PCBs are deadly to otters. How would it have looked for a leader of conservationists to try to sell a poisoned land as otter sanctuary, congressman? Not exactly good publicity, is it? But you had to go through with this project – Woodley has some hold on you," John explained, suddenly realising.

"Where do you think the congressman found the money for his campaign?" Sherlock pointed out, contemptuous. "And as an eminent member of the committee, he had every occasion to befriend the victim. I'd say his built is adequate for carrying a body, too."

"I'm not – you won't," Carruthers spluttered, before trying to flee. When John punched him the man went down like a sack of potatoes.

"The plan is not going to go through, is it?" Woodley sighed.

"No it won't. But you have a choice. You can leave your wife alone and stop blackmailing her or whatever other associates you're trying to pressure into helping you and run – we'll give you a couple of hours. Or you can explain what you were trying to do to the police. I think being on the run – and you better not try to come back – might be punishment enough of you," the detective stated sternly.

"Thank you. I won't forget that," Woodley said eagerly. "Come on, Dom!"

"And me?" Elaine queried tremulously.

"If a man is too stupid to check his love isn't already married before the wedding, it's not our business. I expect that without your husband around you won't have a reason to commit more crimes. If you do…" the sleuth trailed off her warning.

"I'll have you to deal with. I know. It's been a pleasure, John," the widow acknowledged meekly.

"If you hadn't tried to use me, I'd even say it back," he replied, shrugging.

They took their laptop, warned the local police, explaining in all the details they could the reason for the murder, and soon John and Sherlock were on a flight home.

"You're too soft-hearted with criminals," John remarked amiably.

"Are you seriously going to complain about that?" she bit back, raising an amused eyebrow.

"You let Woodley and his wife go – and here I thought you hated blackmailers," he pointed out softly.

"I do, but Elaine was hardly an innocent, helpless victim – her whole life and wealth had been built on lies. And we couldn't expose him without exposing her," the sleuth replied, shrugging.

"So you spared Woodley because you sympathised with the widow?" John queried, curious.

"I don't _sympathise_ with anyone, John," the detective bit back, as if it was the worst accusation she'd ever heard.

"But you know something about building one's life on lies," he pointed out matter-of-factly.

"Not as much as you, _John Watson,_ " Sherlock countered crisply.

"No, not as much," the former thief agreed good-naturedly. "It must be fate that united us when we're so well matched, don't you think?"

"Don't be an idiot," she replied, half-mumbling – but her cheekbones were stained pink.


	6. A scandal in Brooklyn

_Disclaimer: I do not own a single thing. Short one and probably not so good but I've been fighting with writer block. I apologise. Weekly updating is really hard for me._

Episode 6: A scandal in Brooklyn

John appreciated very much his flatmate's lack of modesty. Well, not that he's ever seen her naked (not yet, he liked to hope) but flimsy nightgown and dropping dressing gowns and – his absolute favourite – after-showers sheets (because they apparently dry her better than common towels) were a common occurrence in the flat. Over which John carefully never remarked should Sherlock choose to change her habits.

One morning the detective had just left the bathroom after one such shower, in her usual attire, and just asked him out of the blue if he thought it was time to cut her curls – as if John's opinion mattered. He'd fervently denied the need, because he loved her luscious, dark curls, and believed firmly there could never be too much of them.

A second later – unannounced by Mrs Hudson, but he doesn't blame the old woman for that – they received an unexpected visit. Men in black that reminded John very much of the homonymous movie, making it hard for him not to giggle and query if the aliens are overthrowing New York.

Sherlock, claiming she wasn't dry yet and that she wasn0t going to wet perfectly good clothes, came as she was despite everyone's protestations. She regally agreed to John packing the clothes she'd left on the bed to bring with them., apparently not caring that he'd see – and touch – her underwear. With all the errands he ran, John supposed he'd just been promoted to official butler.

They were brought to the bloody White House by flight, and the former thief started to wonder what the president wanted from them. He should have known that it was the shadow one, also known as Sherlock's older brother, who summoned them. Mycroft was very unamused by his kin's attire. Probably because he was not alone. To be honest, John was unamused by the stranger staring at Sherlock too.

"I was led to believe this case would be handled with all due confidentiality," the man following the elder Holmes (certainly some sort of politician too) hissed.

"And I assure you it is. Sherlock and I are a team. I would relate everything to her and have her help me on the case anyway," John assured smoothly. Which was apparently her cue to start deducing that random politician to prove her worth in the Work, leaving him – as always – deeply uncomfortable and clearly wondering if he shouldn't have _them_ dealt with by secret services instead. Luckily Mycroft reassured him with a look.

Having helped them, the Holmes brother decided it was time to try to bully his little sister into getting properly dressed, but it was only after John covertly nudged her (they had to at least pretend to be professional) that she huffed and relented.

That was better. At least their client wouldn't stare as much. Or – representative of their client, apparently. John smirked hearing of a former actress turned sex worker who seemed to be very popular among a number of people – which included ONU higher ups, the odd CIA agent and even at least one relative of the President (the official one – not Mycroft Holmes).

The woman had many tasteful abodes around the States, but their sources said she'd stay in New York for the next two weeks. There were some ONU reunions planned after which undoubtedly some people would need to…destress.

John and Sherlock were required to ensure that Irene – that was her name – would not be able to blackmail anyone anymore, nor sell secrets.

"People tend to be so inconveniently…chatty during aftercare," Mycroft sighed.

"Consider it done," John guaranteed, smiling. And maybe he'd get to have sex during this assignment. He might have to send Mycroft a thank you gift afterwards (taking care to hide it from Sherlock though).

If the day hadn't been odd enough, while they were getting back home Sherlock covertly showed him an ashtray. A crystal ashtray. One John was pretty sure he'd noticed on the sitting room they'd been welcomed in. "You sly thing you!" he remarked, starting to giggle.

"You were looking at it covetously," Sherlock pointed out, hiding it back. "I didn't know you smoked."

"I don't," John said, grimacing. "That's bad for your health, you know."

"Then why did you want it?" Sherlock countered, looking curious.

"Souvenir. I'm not likely to be admitted there again," the former thief confessed, shrugging.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. You're now Mycroft's most trusted detective, and politicians have a habit to create messes for the Holmes siblings to pick up. Though I usually let my brother handle these by himself. He's lazy enough as he is, I don't want to encourage him," the sleuth replied, smirking. They shared another laugh.

Once back home (and given the ashtray a place of honour in the sitting room) it was time to plan what they'd do about the case. "I was thinking I might book a session with her," the doctor proposed.

The sleuth snorted. "Look, I don't care what your kinks are, but what do you think you will be able to do once you're tied upside down and she's brandishing a cat'o'nine tails? Do you think she'll handle over the material she has if you beg prettily enough?"

John blushed, half in embarrassment and half in anger. "Nothing like that. I was thinking…I'd sniff around. Sort of."

"We don't have the time for that. This had to be sorted…yesterday. No, we'll have to make use of a bit of sneakiness," Sherlock proclaimed.

Which is why John found himself in his cream jumper (because that made him look harmless, according to the sleuth) next to…a nun, and directed to Brooklyn.

Sherlock made them stop in an alley next to the Woman's abode. "Now kiss me. No, better yet – bite my lips."

John's strangled, "What?" was perfectly reasonable. Not that he had anything against kissing her, but the timing wasn't right. Also, he wasn't a biter usually.

"You heard me. oh, and if you could also hold my wrists tight enough to bruise – it happens quite easily, you won't have to hurt me much – I'd be grateful," the detective insisted.

"Now who's the one who's got a kink?" he replied, still hesitating. He'd always been a gentle lover.

Sherlock's glare might have withered a small plant. "Don't be an idiot and bloody do what I tell you, or it won't work!" she hissed.

Cogs started to turn inside John's head. "Do you really think someone would molest a nun? Also, don't they usually go around by two?"

"Are you nitpicking my plan now? I thought you'd jump at the chance," the detective seethed, almost ready to bash her head against a wall and call it a day. And – well, yes, she'd thought flirty John would not object to it. She'd hoped that. Maybe she had read him wrong after all?

"To hurt you? Not really, no matter how frustrating you can be. Can't I just kiss you silly?" he countered.

"Follow. The. Plan," she ordered sternly.

Looking put out, he finally did (promising himself he'd get to do things properly next time he was allowed to kiss her, plan or no plan). And a moment later they were admitted in Irene's lair, the poor, shocked, molested nun and the kindly doctor.

Irene welcomed them stark naked. She looked the both of them over with a long, inquisitive look, before finally sentencing, with a feline smile, "Someone really likes roleplaying. But it's fine, I like that too. Also, it seems I got some incorrect information. I'll have to punish that silly boy."

She got up and stalked over to Sherlock. "Nun, miss detective? Don't you want to lose at least the wimple? I'm honestly wondering why you've brought him along at all. Is he supposed to be your red herring? As if it would work on me."

"I think you have things in reverse," the detective said softly, hoping to deflect her attention.

Irene pursed blood red lips. "Oh please. As if I wouldn't know how to read a couple's dynamic. He's your…what? Pet? Boy? Lay brother?" She laughed.

"I was dressed like this to send that sharp mind off track – it's so easy, with males, almost annoyingly so,.. but I'm much, much more thrilled that I have to contend with you. Not to mention, my dear, that you're downright gorgeous. Why, for a night with you, I might even let you lead…oh, but you wouldn't enjoy that very much, would you? No, you need to relax. Don't worry, I'd take good care of you, I know how to…" the Woman purred. "Say, why don't you come to my room and we can compare wardrobes? You're into roleplay, and I have so many nice costumes…I bet we'd find something that'd fit you."

John coughed. Sherlock was starting to look like a deer in headlights…and not replying. Usually no one could get a word edgewise when she was on a case. That meant that someone had to do something, after all.

Irene glared at him. And Sherlock finally opened her mouth. "John, you can…go. Make a tea or something."

Oh, right. He'd almost forgotten the second part of the plan. But his protective (read: jealous) instinct had flared up and he hesitated leaving his friend alone with that… that… vixen. He obediently marched out of the door.

"I have to confess I have a bit of size kink," the Woman said, as soon as they were alone, "for the biggest sex organ in the human body." At the sleuth's puzzled look, she elaborated, "the brain, love. What do you say? Want to seduce me? You'd have it easy."

Before Sherlock could decide on a reply to give her ( _just say no, for the love of God, you aren't one to fall for random flattery…and beside, you have John for that!_ she thought, uneasy) a lot of things started happening at the same time.

The fire alarm started blaring ( _that'd be John…good boy_ …), which prompted a worried Irene to unconsciously reveal the hideout of her phone…and before the detective could think of a way to nick it, they were interrupted. By an uncomfortable-looking John and at least three people with guns (but Sherlock would surmise that there were more around) that, while they talked a perfect English, were clearly North Korean. And they wanted the same Mycroft had wanted. Irene had really not been picky about the clients she entertained, had she?

Now, Sherlock wouldn't have cared about Irene's trigger-happy guests, if they hadn't threatened John. They were not on Irene's side, and they shouldn't be bothered by her enemies. Thank God that she'd worked out a code system with his colleague (such things were simply necessary) and that John had his military training to fall back on (and that Irene was far from helpless herself – but with her field of choice it'd be surprising if she was).

Once they had gotten rid of the unwanted guests, the mission could be accomplished. Or so the detective had thought. But apparently Irene was full of surprises and didn't take well to being outsmarted.

It was Sherlock's luck (no, no luck, of course, her…wisdom) that had made her pick a companion with medical knowledge and a caring attitude. Not that she'd been seriously hurt, and she honestly was worried about what she could have mumbled once stoned (hopefully that hadn't released the cuddle monster she'd once been), but at least John hadn't teased her afterwards.

Probably because Irene had taken over that duty with an obduracy worthy of a better cause. She ignored all attempts to…was that even flirting? Or just embarrassing her? Driving home the point that she'd failed (for now at least – she had ever intention to win this game).

Strangely, the harassment seemed to bother John as much as it unnerved her. Why, maybe even more. It couldn't be all hurt professional pride, could it? Why did he care? ( _Stop now, Sherlock. You know you can't deduce properly when there are desires and…feelings involved,_ she told herself firmly).

What she really didn't expect was the odd question after the umpteenth text from Irene (if she weren't hoping she'd get a clue through one sooner or later she'd have changed her number). "Sherlock…are you gay?"

John was honestly wondering why he hadn't asked before. He'd spent all this time pining after this wonderful woman, and romancing her as subtly as he could (fine, not very subtly sometimes, but she seemed to always become prickly if he was too blatant) and he hadn't ever wondered about that after that not exactly very informative not-date at Angelo's. After all, how was it possible that one as gorgeous as her did not have a boyfriend to play Watson already? She should only have nodded to anyone to get him on board with any of her plans.

And because Sherlock can't give straight answers to stupid questions, she replied, "What does it matter?"

"Well, I just wanted to know if I was going to be a best man anytime soon," John replied, shrugging. It doesn't really matter what the detective is, probably. Irene exuded enough raw sexuality to turn anyone at least bicurious. (Fine, fine, sexuality didn't work like that but – if you'd met Irene you'd get what he meant.)

"Don't be an idiot, John. More than usual, that is," she groaned. As if she didn't have a hard time enough trying to figure out how to get her hands on the bloody phone. Of course, she didn't expect to receive it as a gift out of the blue. Much less to not be able to enter it, no matter what she tried. Probably living with John and his pitifully simple passwords had rusted her skills.

The news of the Woman's death, instead, weren't a surprise at all. She wouldn't have given it up otherwise when all the material she needed for her protection was in there. Oh well, that at least got her a cigarette out of Mycroft. (Hopefully John wouldn't realise she'd indulged, he was so hatefully doctor about these trifles.) She couldn't help but be frustrated, though. She couldn't say to have won until she could safely unlock that blasted cellphone and offer it to her brother.

Besides, she'd never wanted Irene dead. She couldn't gloat at her now that the Woman was dead, could she? The sleuth might be a bit shallow, but she had wanted to put that infuriating creature back in her place. (And prove to John that she was the best, maybe, but these were the kind of things they didn't talk about – not openly).

It was frustration that led her to her violin. Pure frustration, and the need to think. She would crack that code. Nobody really chose a random number, no matter how convenient that would be. She only needed to penetrate the dead Woman's mind. Irene was smart. She didn't need to scale down her brain when asking herself what she'd do in her place.

John felt…divided about Irene's passing. Of course, it was a great thing that that awful woman wasn't around to torment them anymore, but Sherlock was…sad? Possibly heartbroken? She'd certainly let the teasing go on without a protest before. Might have enjoyed it, who knew. She certainly looked…receptive, as much as he hated that word. (And he wasn't jealous – he was…concerned. Oh Gosh, now he sounded like Mycroft.) Anyway, while he was very glad for Irene's passing, he was certainly unhappy about its effect on the flat's mood. But what was he supposed to do to cheer her up? Bring her a new set of toes from the morgue, maybe?

He'd set up to do exactly that, when he was…invited. He expected Mycroft. God knew the stile was his. And instead, it was Irene bloody Adler. Very much alive. And wanting to use him. As if. (Really, the nerve of that woman!)

"Look, there's no need to disturb your lover. I just need what-you-know back, so if you could be so kind as to get it," the dominatrix had asked, smirking.

And even if he didn't like to admit it, in the interest of fairness (and of Sherlock, who might be crushing on her, for all John knew) he pointed out, "By the way, we're not lovers." He didn't even consider the proposal worthy of a denial – wasn't it obvious?

"Yet," Irene purred. "If you're going to think things so loudly, you might as well come clean and say it aloud."

She heard people's thoughts too? Sherlock and she really deserved each other, didn't they?

"Anyway, if you want it you're going to come home. Or rather, you're going to come home nevertheless. You need to apologise," John ordered sharply.

"Don't you want me out of your territory?" she countered, challenging.

"I want Sherlock to know the kind of woman you are, in case she doesn't get it yet. And in any case, you don't have a choice. I'm certainly not going to bring it to you," he replied sternly.

"Oh fine. It'll be a _pleasure_ to meet her," Irene agreed, and ignored John's glare all the way to his home.

Sherlock was in her armchair, apparently pondering over something (probably the password) and she didn't react when John came back. The supposedly dead dominatrix coming to kneel by her chair, crossing her hands at the wrists behind the small of her back, and murmuring, head down and eyes hooded, "I'm sorry I let you think I was dead, love. It was for both our protection," startled her though. Especially since she raised her head afterwards and asked cheekily to her flatmate, "So? Good enough, Sir?"

The detective might have let out a cough-snort-odd sound at the exchange. John elected not to reply, but simply glowered at Irene, marching into the kitchen for tea. Tea solved everything.

Still, coming back to find Irene perched on the armrest of the armchair and murmuring in her ear something that sounds suspiciously like, "Impress me, come on, you brilliant creature," while then proceeding to have what amounts to eyesex, angered John. First and foremost, brilliant is his adjective. Irene can make the effort to pick her own praise. Which meant she couldn't use amazing, extraordinary, fantastic either. Actually, there were scarce adjectives she had at her disposition.

Needing to interrupt this (wasn't Sherlock supposed to be livid about being duped? He would be), he blurted out, "John Hamish Watson."

"Hamish?" the detective echoed, zeroing eagle-like sharp eyes on him (which was good).

"In case you'd need baby names soon – that's the whole of it," the former thief quipped.

"Be a good girl, Sherlock – show me how much of a genius you are." Irene prompted, touching her arm.

That made John turn away in disgust – or he'd have noticed that the sleuth (who was a genius, of course she was, and decoded the little puzzle Irene had put under her nose in under seven seconds) was still looking at him. It was only ever at her partner that the detective wanted to show off his genius, if only to gain that automatic admiration she'd gotten used to. (That John was silent this time, in some sort of snit, was – to Sherlock's not so humble opinion – deeply unfair. She was the only one allowed to pout.)

"Now, my phone. Come on, you've had your fun with it. You can't get in. Why do you need it?" Irene prompted, extending her hand.

"To keep you from blackmailing people with it, for example," the sleuth bit back.

"I don't blackmail! It's protection!" the dominatrix huffed.

"Wait! Maybe I can get in," John blurted.

"Oh really?" Irene hissed turning angrily to him.

"Yes, boss, why don't you explain it for me?" Sherlock queried, sounding bitter.

"I'll give you only a hint. I'm certain you'll figure it out. She sent the phone to _you_. It's _you_ she's been teasing all this time," John pointed out, smirking.

"Did you want me to bother with the dummy?" Irene growled, spiteful but with an edge of panic.

That was all the confirmation Sherlock needed to solve the password code.

"I opened it. And my brother will be happy to receive it, I don't doubt," she declared, smugly. "If only you hadn't wanted to play so much, you'd have won. And of course, if you hadn't underestimated John."

"I'm going to die if you deny me my protection," the dominatrix pleaded, slipping to her knees again.

"Don't worry. I'm sure Mycroft will find you an use. He uses everyone. Of course, you can't set your conditions anymore. I'll text him to come collect you," Sherlock replied, shrugging.

When the Woman was led away from their rooms – quite limp in the hands of Mycroft's minions, who received also the phone (Sherlock hoped for their safety that Irene wouldn't manage to pickpocket them) - John asked amiably, "So, was Sher the code?"

"How did you figure out?" the detective shot back, looking puzzled.

"As George Downes would say, it's amazing the clarity that comes with psychotic jealousy. Or, well, not exactly psychotic, but…I should really have picked another quote, shouldn't I?" the former thief groaned. Honesty had never served him well, but this had just…slipped out.

"I'll pretend I've not heard that," the sleuth said. No matter how flattering it had been. "Also, Hamish? Which movie character is that?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" John teased, smiling. "Who knows, maybe I just told you my true name. Or maybe it is the name of a police detective in a series I used to watch. Or maybe it's a mystery I want you to solve. Or maybe it's all three."

"John!" she replied, half-protest and half-warning.

"What would be your life without some mysteries, Sherlock?" he quipped.

"Fine. Keep your secrets," she conceded. She'd solve it sooner or later anyway.


	7. The most eligible bachelor

_Disclaimer: I own nothing._

Episode 7: The most eligible bachelor

"I fail to see what's so great about being unable to hold a commitment," Sherlock grumbled in the cab.

"Of course, it's silly," John agreed, but still the smug expression didn't leave his face, "but after all it's a good advertising move, and we do get a free holiday out of it." When a popular magazine had informed them that John Watson was in the top five most eligible bachelors of the East Coast, and that they would be glad if he could participate to a cruise with the others so the magazine could make a piece out of it, John couldn't say yes fast enough.

But he'd asked if he could have a plus one, and when they agreed, somehow roped Sherlock into coming. She suspected having been drugged into complacence, but kept that idea to herself. Truth was, he'd asked if he could have a plus two, because he knew perfectly well Sherlock wasn't going to be manageable without Mrs Hudson's help, but he'd kept it a secret from the sleuth. Their secretary had promised to let them have their privacy unless she was needed for damage control.

"It may be good advertising, but I won't like it," the detective insisted stubbornly. "I'd much rather stay home and work."

"You need to unwind, and since you refused my offer of a massage the other day…" the doctor trailed off, shrugging.

"You're impossible, you know?" she bit back, frustrated. Of course she had refused. That would be entirely too much hands on her not to pose an unacceptable risk.

"Pot. Kettle. Black," he replied simply.

When they arrived at the ship (a huge thing, with a ridiculous name like Golden Arrow) and a sailor announced them as Watson and guest while checking their tickets, the sleuth protested, "I have a name."

"And an unforgettable one, but you've wanted me to take the spotlight. That's what I'm doing. You can't get angry at people for that," John pointed out, putting a calming hand on her arm.

"I still have a name," she groaned. She hated this already.

"Yes, Sherlock," he agreed, placating.

Then there was a brown-eyed woman in a dove-grey suit coming to them. "I'm Tilly Briggs, from the magazine's staff. Welcome, Mr Watson. I'll supervise everything, so you can come to my cabin at any time of the day…or the night…if you have any needs. If you'd follow me to the lounge, we'll handle introductions and then depart."

"Of course," John agreed, smiling genially. "Sherlock, if you could please wait for my company until that's dealt with…"

"Of course I will, boss. I'll just stay rooted here so you don't have to search for me afterwards," she uttered demurely. With a completely straight face, the bastard. John knew he was already in trouble, but he hadn't surmised his predicament to be that big so soon. He was doing all this only for advertising, which meant getting more cases, which meant Sherlock wouldn't be bored. Didn't she get it?

A part of the lounge had been hidden by drapers, and that was where Mrs Briggs asked John to stand until his name would be called. He could see the other bachelors, but as no one greeted him he made no attempt at conversation either.

"Welcome, everyone," she said, moving to the open part of the lounge and clearly talking to the public gathered there. "I know, you're all anxious to finally meet these fine specimens of the male figure. Each and everyone here is dreaming to trap one of these hard-to-get gentlemen in front of a priest. Well, best of luck, everyone. You know that the captain of a ship can legally celebrate marriages too, don't you?" Tilly winked. The crowd cheered.

"Now, without further ado, I present to you the five most eligible bachelors of the East Coast. Or, well, the four, because doctor James Mortimer, the famous surgeon of Boston, had to refuse joining us at the last minute. But you know how it is, doctors, always busy saving lives… I don't doubt that he's more necessary where he is now," she added. "But we do have – Butch Staunton, the football star. Please, show yourself."

The public catcalled loudly and enthusiastically at the appearance of the beloved athlete. "Now, Mr Staunton, he really needs no presentation. Especially because here we have someone you know very well. The cheerleaders for your team! I'll have to ask you to pick only one for the day, though, and leave some for the other guests' entertainment," Mrs Briggs said, smiling.

The known player – in every field – picked a slim, green eyed, black haired girl who could barely breath, "Sally…" reverently.

"And now…Eddie Lucas, stockbroker. He loves classical music and poetry. So he's far from being a man only absorbed in his cold numbers, you see. We have a sensitive soul here," Tilly continued.

The tall, grey eyed, black haired man called on the scene smiled and picked one grinning, red haired girl, with eyes of a warm brown and a lovely smattering of freckles. "Tyanata…Tyanata Draven, Eddie. But you can call me Tya," she introduced herself, eyes twinkling.

"My dear ladies, third is…Mr John Watson, the famous sleuth. While he unveils other people's secrets, our Mr Watson is rather reticent about himself," Mrs Briggs introduced him.

John was almost blinded by the flash cameras, but grinned nonetheless. "Well, half the fun is in discovering things for oneself, isn't it?" he interjected. Then he winked. Just because he could.

"Spoken like a true ladykiller," Tilly replied. "So? Who's going to be your favourite?"

"Sherlock," was on the tip of his tongue, but he had to play his part. He picked a petite, red haired, honey eyed girl.

"Milly. Milly Fairbrush," she said, smiling widely and taking his arm.

"And last but very much not least…Pitt Carey, of the Carey and Carey law firm." Once the stern-looking lawyer selected a companion too, and a few more photos were taken, they were invited to enjoy the cruise.

In the meantime, a tall – taller than her, even – blond and grey haired man came to Sherlock's side, asking her, "Why all alone here, Miss?"

"This is not the entertainment I'd have chosen. I can make without watching people behave like peacocks," she countered sharply.

He laughed warmly. "Very true. Young men can be so arrogant."

"And you? Are you involved in this…thing?" she replied. Making conversation as John taught her instead of immediately spitting her deductions. Her boss would be proud. Besides, she was bored. Any company was better than none (fine, she might be a bit desperate).

"Wish I could say I wasn't, but I'm Simon Williams, the publisher. It is a bit of a ridiculous initiative, I know, but it sells. And it allows people to dream, so it can't be all that bad, can it?" he answered, still smiling.

"These kinds of dreams are noxious," Sherlock spit.

"Really? Have you never dreamt the prince charming coming to sweep you away?" the man teased kindly.

"I'm not very much into fairy tales," the detective replied diplomatically. Better not make anyone want to throw her overboard if she could help it. Of course, when John was back she could be herself. If he hadn't already been stolen by that slutty supervisor or some else ditzy girl. It wasn't fair. She'd seen him first. Couldn't they find their own people?

"Oh well – will you let me show you around?" Simon queried, offering her his arm. And while she'd promised John she'd stay put, thinking that he was undoubtedly flirting shamelessly at this very moment, she agreed. Besides, his hair was almost exactly the same shade of her boss'.

Simon led her around the ship, and when they visited the hot tub, Sherlock was tempted to take off her sandals and wet her toes. Maybe it'd relax her.

"I wouldn't do that," the man pointed out hurriedly. "It might scald you. This place is thought like an ancient Roman thermal baths, when you move your way up to this."

"Thank you for the warning," she said. Oh well. They had gone overboard in organizing things uh?

"If you want, we can start with the pool," he offered, smiling.

"No, thank you." The detective wasn't about to get naked in company of this stranger, however kind and charming.

In the meantime, John searched around for his partner (though with Milly hanging from his arm it wasn't really the brightest idea), but he couldn't find her anywhere. Oh well. Sherlock could take care of herself. Maybe she'd found Mrs Hudson and was getting her settled.

So he let himself be dragged from Milly to the pool, where the other were showing off. John, though, refused to. He made use of the sponsor-issued burgundy dressing gown he found in the locker room. He could swim, but that'd mean show his scar and while he wasn't ashamed of how he got it, he didn't like people he didn't trust staring at it. Besides, there wasn't anyone he wanted to show off to, here, and he had enough of the competitive mood already.

That didn't mean Milly didn't dive in, showing off for him. He wished he could tell her how useless that was, but there was no reason to hurt her feelings. Afterwards, they rushed to the hot tub zone, skipping the lukewarm pool, whose point no one had gotten, and John stopped in his track a step beyond the door, seeing Sherlock in a corner with an unknown man. What was she thinking? She just didn't socialize. And now she did?

Staunton surpassed him, teasing everyone, yelling, "Last one in is a sissy!" He jumped in the water…and let out a scream. Something had gone very wrong. There were sparks in the water. The man had been electrocuted.

John and Sherlock ran instinctively towards the dead body. "There. Are you happy now?" he whispered to the sleuth, whose eyes held the well-known beam of enthusiasm.

"I might be," she murmured back, grinning.

Tilly Briggs rushed in, taking the situation in hand and ushering everyone away. The sleuth was surprised by the way the publisher looked like he was trying to pretend he was not there. But perhaps he had a weak stomach.

"Such a terrible accident," the supervisor claimed, once she was alone with the detectives and the dead body.

"It was not," Sherlock bit back sharply.

"How can you say that?" Tilly protested in a high pitched voice, sounding outraged. A bit too much so.

"It was, and you know it," John remarked. He noticed when people lied. He'd done it often enough himself.

"There can't be any link," Mrs Briggs objected, pursing her lips.

"With what?" the sleuth queried sternly.

"Doctor Mortimer. I received a call saying his head had been kicked in by a horse and he was dead. Then a second call said he was murdered. I saw no reason to alarm everyone when we could do nothing, though," Tilly explained, sighing.

"That's two out of five. Did the victims have anything other in common besides being bachelors? You picked them. You should know," Sherlock asked harshly.

"Not to my knowledge. if you're sure this isn't an accident, we'll have to go back to port and involve the police," the supervisor stated grimly.

"Not necessarily. You have the best sleuth on board. He can do better than any policemen," Sherlock interjected. She wasn't going to have police make a mess of this.

"That would be such a relief," Mrs Briggs said, batting her eyelashes at John.

 _Did women really do that?_ the detective wondered. _She was a woman, but even if she'd wanted to flirt…wasn't that too unabashed? Apparently not._

"Do you realize that you're setting me as bait, Sherlock?" John protested, looking less than pleased with her and ignoring the supervisor completely.

"You at least know that you're in danger. Don't think you can handle yourself, boss?" the detective teased cheekily.

"Of course. Don't be ridiculous," the former thief countered sharply. He had a reputation to uphold – and besides, he was trained to fight. Whoever attempted to kill him would have had a surprise.

"Thank you. Oh, thank you, Mr Watson. Then we'll go on with the cooking trial, to see if you can get to a woman's heart through her stomach too. What was you'd picked? Magret de canard au miel, I believe?" Tilly literally purred.

"Something like that, yeah," John agreed. It was carefully picked to get him to Sherlock's heart through her stomach (he might or might not have asked Mrs Hudson's opinion), but now that there was a case on hand she'd probably refuse to taste it. Bugger. But the detective had picked up the scent, like a bloodhound, and now wasn't going to be sidetracked. He didn't regret the work intruding on the cruise, now. Sherlock looked like she'd finally started to enjoy herself (and would stay away from weasel-like strangers). "Don't worry, we'll solve this."

"I'm going to interrogate the other bachelors while you comply with the show," the detective announced enthusiastically. What Sherlock really didn't expect was to meet Mrs Hudson in a corridor after Mrs Briggs had gone to organize the next part of the event, John obediently in tow. "What are you doing here, Mrs Hudson?" she blurted out, raising an eyebrow.

"Can't leave my babies without supervision. Especially not if John is to cook. He'll need some help don't you think?" the old woman replied, winking.

"Neither of us is a baby since a long time ago," the sleuth protested, blushing, but knowing perfectly well her objections would be totally overlooked by her landlady. "Besides, isn't that cheating?"

"Maybe. But I'll take care of him anyway. He won't stray, I promise. You concentrate on your work and do not worry, dear," Mrs Hudson assured, with a too-wide smile.

"He's free to do whatever he wants, Mrs Hudson," the detective pointed out, even though she was secretly glad for her second mum's plan.

"Of course, dear, of course. Now run. The case won't solve itself," the old woman urged her, with an affectionate pat.

Mr Lucas, the stockbroker, was busy with Stuffed chicken Valentino, when Sherlock hounded him down. "What a welcome interruption," he said, smiling widely and looking at her in clear appreciation.

"Oh, I don't mean to interrupt. By all means, if you're capable of cooking and talking at the same time, do so. I wouldn't want to make you fail," the sleuth replied, looking as if she doubted he could.

"Just a moment then. Let me set the mood," the man replied, going to a stereo in the corner. Vivaldi's Four Seasons echoed immediately. "Much better, don't you think?"

"If you say so," she countered without an ounce of enthusiasm.

"Oh come on. What do you hear?" Mr Lucas prompted, looking disappointed.

"Violins," the detective deadpanned, already beginning to lose her patience.

"Not the flowers in bloom, the song of mountain creeks, the first tiny leaves on the branches, life and love awakening?" the stockbroker gushed, incredulous at her coldness in his passion.

God! He was worse than John at romantic drivel. Sherlock rolled her eyes and decided not to restrain herself anymore. ""Honestly what _I_ hear is someone playing a semiquaver too quick and putting a staccato where it doesn't belong. But I'm not here to talk about music. "

"You play the violin?" he asked, sounding entirely too surprised for it not to be a tiny bit insulting.

"I do. While you never had enough perseverance to learn any instrument," the detective deduced quickly.

Mr Lucas laughed – taking it rather better than most usually did. "I really didn't. It seems you know me. Why don't you tell me more about yourself?"

"How about we talk of Mr Staunton and who could have wanted to kill him, instead? Like you, for example?" she quipped, glaring at him. She didn't really think he could be the murderer, but she'd like him a bit less at ease.

"I didn't even know him. Sure, I met him for half an hour and already thought he was an arrogant prat, but that's not really enough to kill someone, don't you think?" the stockbroker admitted honestly.

"Maybe. And Mr Williams, the publisher? How do you see him as a murderer?" the sleuth queried. She needed more data.

"Him? Christ, no. Everyone else of us, I'd be doubtful, but I'll tell you a secret I've learned at work. Our esteemed publisher's finances are on rather thin ice at the moment. His best asset is owning the team Staunton played in. You simply don't kill the one who's keeping you financially afloat," the man revealed, shrugging.

"Not unless you haven't some strong motivation, I agree," Sherlock concurred, nodding.

"Like what?" Mr Lucas asked, curious, leaning towards her.

"Oh, you'd be surprised by all the reasons people find to justify killing someone," she answered, with an enigmatic smile.

"Professional secret?" he assumed, clearly disappointed at her lack of gossip. She'd come to have information, not to share them.

"Yes," Sherlock simply acknowledged, not looking the least apologetic.

"Fine, I won't mind… _if_ you taste this and tell me how it's coming out," he claimed, holding out a morsel for her on a fork. At least he hadn't gotten into the disgusting idea to hand feed her.

"I'm sorry. I never eat on a case," she said quickly. And she'd never been happier for that in her career.

"Because I'm a suspect?" he challenged, raising an incredulous eyebrow.

"No, because I. Don't. Eat. It slows down my brain," the detective explained. Why was everyone so surprised by it? Perhaps because their brains were already at their slowest?

"Oh come on. That must be the most absurd excuse I heard," the man protested loudly.

"It's not an excuse. Ask Mr Watson," Sherlock bit back sharply. She didn't need any excuse beyond 'I don't want to', but she'd justified herself all the same because men usually didn't know how to take a simple no. And now this idiot objected? That was too much to bear.

"He's not the one who enforced that rule, is it? you could sue him, if he was," the stockbroker asked suspiciously. As if she'd do that out of anything by her own judgement. If she hadn't had the evidence to back that up, no word from John could have made her do anything.

"Of course he's not. He doesn't even share my point of view," the sleuth confessed, angry at the insinuation. But even John could fail. His medical background didn't matter. She knew how her brain worked better than anyone else.

"And you don't bow to him?" Mr Lucas queried, sounding honestly surprised. He apparently didn't get the memo that being someone's boss didn't equate being her master. Or her minder (even though John would always jest he actually was). "Come on. Just a bite. It won't hurt."

"I certainly don't bow to _you_ ," Sherlock snarled. Better not inform him that John sometimes managed to get her to nibble on something when cases dragged too long. He wouldn't certainly take a no in that case.

"Fine, I'll taste it myself. Spoilsport," the idiot complained. He tasted the bite…and immediately fell down. Choking. Cyanotic. In a few seconds, before she could even think to call for help, he was already dead. Poison, clearly. Nobody could deny the murder this time. She missed John, busy with that stupid business. Of course, she was an expert on poisons, but his opinion would not have gone amiss.

In the meantime John had been busy with the Magret de Canard au Miel (or Seared Duck Breast with Honey, but everything sounded so much more classy in French), under the careful supervision of Mrs Hudson. He was pretty proud of the results, if he said so himself. The smell was amazing.

Sadly Sherlock hadn't come back still so he was stuck with Milly gushing at him and a photographer who shrieked, "No! No! She doesn't have to eat it – that's ugly! You just have to fake feeding her." Which was a torture for both the poor girl, who seemed honestly hungry, and John, who still wondered why his ladykiller image required him to fake feeding her by hand – under the watchful and clearly disapproving gaze of Mrs Hudson, who flatly refused to leave him alone.

The last photo had barely been taken that Milly's lips closed around John's fingers. He almost choked himself at Mrs Hudson's loud cough.

"Well, now we can finally eat this delicacy – the two of us. I wouldn't mind if you kept feeding me," the young woman cooed, winking.

"Oh, but Mr Watson is busy with the investigation, aren't you, dear?" Mrs Hudson interjected in an 'I dare you to deny that' tone.

"I thought your employee was doing that," the girl protested, pouting.

"Ah, but I can't let her have all the fun, can I?" John remarked, with a lopsided grin, and secretly grateful for his secretary's interference. He was all for flirting, but when it became some sort of duty, the game immediately lost its appeal.

"Fun? A murder?" Milly objected, pretty mouth open in an expression of shock and incredulity.

Oh bugger. He'd spent too much time with Sherlock. He tried to explain nonetheless. "The thrill of the chase, the mental challenge, the…"

"Why don't you at least accompany me to my room and explain me more about your fun on the way? I want to understand you," the young woman cut him in, quickly getting over her surprise to resume flirting.

"John – don't do anything Sherlock wouldn't," Mrs Hudson called sternly, causing Milly to openly glare at her.

"I won't Mrs Hudson," he reassured her quickly. "Make sure this doesn't spoil, will you? we might still get Her Majesty to taste it later." The old woman nodded, clearly pleased with his reply.

"And who is Her Majesty?" the young woman queried, looking seriously put out.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" John teased, without answering. There was no way that admitting this was his nickname for Sherlock would go well. Half reluctant, he followed Milly to her cabin, talking about everything – work, mostly – to keep her from figuring out that while he was technically a bachelor, his heart might not be as free as that title seemed to imply.

She chirped silly replies, insisting on how much she admired him, and rubbed against his side unabashedly in a way he didn't know how to stop without offending her.

When her cabin was in sight, John breathed an internal sigh of relief, This had almost ended. But then she threw her arms around his neck, purring, "Why don't you come inside? You could tell me more… or I could show you what I intend for fun. We might even order lunch in later..."

"Sorry Milly, you're lovely but I really have to get back to work. There's a murderer on the loose," John pointed out, gently unlacing her arms. "In fact, lock yourself in. You will be safer." Sure, she wasn't a contestant, but they hadn't figured out the motive of the murders yet.

She huffed in frustration, but obeyed and locked the door behind herself as he'd suggested. It was then that the first shot echoed.

Sherlock burst into John's room in the hospital wing like a swishing, panicked tornado. "John! John! I heard…What happened? How are you? John!"

"Hey! Hey, relax. I'm alive. This is all…quite embarrassing, really," the patient replied softly, raising a hand in a placating gesture.

"Embarrassing? You've been attacked by a serial killer," the sleuth pointed out, relaxing after seeing her partner…not well, of course, but certainly not on the brink of death.

"Yes. He – or she, I suppose – shot me when I had my back to him. Luckily for me, the murderer had the worst aim ever, so he just nicked my leg. If he'd had just a bit more skill, or even luck, he could have hit the femoral artery and I've been bleeding out in a random corridor, but he didn't. and I had my gun, too, and I'd be damned if I didn't catch him. Well, that means I'm damned now, but these were my thoughts. He had shot from behind a corner of the corridor, and I ran in that direction, determined to catch the bastard and not too worried about getting another bullet. After all, the idiot couldn't kill me when I was a still, unwary target. Anyway, whether he was afraid of the commotion his shot could have caused, or just unused to victims fighting back, fact is that he fled. All I could see was a vague silhouette running away, already in the lower deck by the time I'd turned the corner. Lower deck because just around that blasted corner there was a staircase I didn't expect. A bit it must have been my rushing, a bit the surprise, and a bit a sudden dizziness caused by the wound, but in the end I misstepped and fell down these damned stairs. Result: one broken leg. As I said, very embarrassing," John related, ending in a weak laugh.

"You broke your own leg in a reckless chase," the detective summarized for him, an amused grin slowly spreading on her face.

"Yeah," he grumbled, blushing a bit. He'd been an idiot, hadn't he?

"If I hear you lecture me again," she remarked, still grinning. Her partner had lost his moral high ground, hadn't he? He was worse than Sherlock.

"I very much will lecture you again," the doctor cut in. "See what could happen? Haven't I been right all this time?"

Before Sherlock could reply, Milly came in without knocking, veritably brandishing a cup of tea. "You have a British accent, Johnny, so I thought, comfort good, tea, surely tea. I feel so guilty. I mean, if I'd consented to let you in my room yesterday, you wouldn't have been shot," she chattered a mile a minute.

John choked on the horrible tea he'd been forced to sip hearing such a blatant distortion of reality. "We haven't finished yet discussing the case," Sherlock interjected icily, "if you could give us a moment, and maybe knock before coming in, Miss…"

Milly looked at John, waiting for his instruction. "I'm still going to solve this case, Milly. If you just give me the time to," he said sternly.

She blushed. "Oh, of course, and sorry, it's just that my hands were full, so…" she stammered, before retreating – but with a glare at Sherlock.

"It wasn't like that! Sherlock, you've got to believe me, I've been saddled with her company for advertising reasons, but I've never tried to – wanted to –" John blurted out as soon as the woman had left the room.

"Relax. It was obvious even to the blind that she was lying. Not that I would have cared," the detective replied. Or at least, she'd have no right to care, and would have managed to pretend to ignore her colleague's amorous activities.

"Besides, I could never fall for anyone who makes such a horrid tea," the British man pointed out, with a grimace that changed into a lopsided grin. He thought that the sleuth might join him in a laugh, but she frowned instead.

"You need to be more careful about what you put in your mouth, John. The stockbroker has just been poisoned. Take only what Mrs Hudson brings you," she advised sternly. She should have knocked out the cup from John's hands. But it all happened so quick – and Milly didn't seem threatening, just still flirting…

"The stockbroker has been…" he echoed, incredulous. This murderer was moving quick.

"With his own recipe. And if I ate during cases you'd have to end this investigation alone," she elaborated, shrugging.

"He tried to hand feed you?" John asked, sounding suddenly incensed. There had been some photographer urging them to flirt more, maybe?

"No, not by hand thank God, but he was very eager for my opinion on his recipe. But that's not the point. Someone poisoned one of his ingredients. And then shot you," the detective reconstructed. What was John getting agitated over? Not the death, it didn't seem so. Her danger? But she'd come out unscathed, unlike him. What then? Oh, no matter. She shouldn't be pondering over his illogic behaviour now. She had a case to solve.

"What about the lawyer?" the former thief inquired. He was the last bachelor standing, after all.

"I still need to meet him. Once I heard that you'd been attacked, well…" Sherlock trailed off. She'd panicked, pure and simple. She should have continued solving the case, shouldn't she? Even if he'd been killed – she'd solved cases alone. "Better to warn him, right? Oh, John! A bachelor serial killer. This is an odd one. I can't get his motives. Or her motives. What does anyone get out of this?"

"What if it is an ABC murder?" John hypothesized, trying to help.

"Are you referring to that absurd mystery series that you forced me to watch?" she replied, raising an eyebrow.

"Poirot is not absurd. It's a classic! But yes. What if it isn't a serial killer – but someone who's covering his intended victim and the obvious motivations for that by turning this into an insensate bachelor murder spree?" the doctor explained. This could make sense. No one could have a grudge against bachelors for being bachelors – no one sane, at least – but these people could have enemies of their own.

"Maybe. We'll need more data for that. I'm going to interrogate that Carey lawyer," Sherlock conceded. She didn't want to leave John (odd, that), but the quicker the case was solved the quicker he'd be safe.

"Be careful," John called after her.

"You too," she bit back, repressing the urge to frown in worry.

"Don't worry. I have my gun," he reassured, taking it from under his pillow and aiming playfully at her. She relaxed. Oh yes. Much better. Still…

Milly was still in the waiting room in front of John's room, waiting not-so-patiently. "You can go keep John company…if you dare. They've already tried killing him and are likely to want to finish the job," the detective told the young woman, with a challenging tone.

"They won't do that if he's not alone," Milly remarked, raising from her chair, adjusting her clothes and taking a brave step towards John's room.

"Possibly. Trust only Mrs Hudson and myself. And I realise that for someone wanting to trap an husband the choices here have been drastically reduced, but I wouldn't attach myself to John too much. He's a charmer, but he bores easily," the sleuth warned. It was a friendly warning, and an honest one, too. John liked to flirt, but he was a bee, flitting from flower to flower, taking the best and moving on. And he really bored easily. Any adrenaline addict did.

"With you, maybe," Milly countered sharply, before putting a besotted smile on her face and entering John's room. Oh well. She'd warned the girl. She'd been kind. Let her get stung if she really wanted to. She' understand in the end that John went back to Sherlock. Because she provided cases. Adrenaline fuelled chases (hopefully not always ending in broken legs). Because she was bored, too, and entertaining herself she entertained him with what he really needed. Which was not sex, no matter what John thought.

Pitt Carey gave her a slimy smile when she joined him on the deck, where he was sunbathing (thank God in swimming trunks. "What are you doing here, beauty?"

"Investigating three and half murders," she snapped coldly.

"Half?" he echoed, raising an eyebrow in incomprehension.

"Mr Watson is still alive, not for lack of trying by our criminal. You're the only bachelor whose life has not been threatened yet. Why, someone might even deem that suspect," the sleuth explained, looking down on him.

"Oh well. I'm sure that oversight will be corrected soon," the lawyer joked, with an arrogant grin on his face. He didn't feel very threatened, clearly.

"I agree," the detective remarked, serious. "You might want to be on your guard."

"Oh I will," he assured, but stretching like a lazy cat at the same time seemed to belie his words. "Why is this all happening though?"

"That's the question isn't it? The methods are clear. The opportunities are present for almost everyone on board. The motivations, not so much. Do you know anything that could make someone want to kill even only one of you candidates?" Sherlock inquired, crossing her arms.

"If it was just Staunton I'd have bet on Mr Williams, but like this, I have no idea," the man replied lightly.

"I've been told that Staunton was Mr Williams' best asset," she objected, frowning.

"I was his lawyer. Staunton's, I mean. He had received some juicy offers and had given Williams a letter of intent. Intent of leaving the team, that was, if you aren't familiar with the term. He was the best player. The soul of the team. Its results would have crumbled without him. Instead, with his death, Williams will cash in the insurance premium he had on him. Five millions," Carey revealed nonchalantly.

"Well, that certainly makes for a motivation," the detective agreed, smiling down at the man. "And about the others? Did you know any of them?"

"I'd heard of them naturally, but I can't say that I'd met any of them before," he stated, sounding bored.

"Thanks. You've been useful. Take care," she advised. With the new data, things started to make sense.

"Don't you want to stay and protect me?" Carey queried, opening his legs to make space – as if any sensible bodyguard would sit between them.

"Go back to your cabin and lock yourself in," Sherlock snarled, leaving with great, angry strides.

She went back to John's sick room and recounted all the new information. It helped calm her. "Williams certainly had the opportunity to rig the ship with deadly traps. Nobody would have protested seeing him touch something. And he made sure I didn't trigger the hot tub before it claimed its intended victim – one of you bachelors," she added. There was no doubt about that now.

"You've almost died twice in a day?" John yelped, his voice a tad higher than usual.

"One of my best days, don't you think?" the sleuth replied, winking.

"You are crazy," he laughed. "But the point here is that we know, but we do not have any evidence. We need Williams to make an error. As the tagline for Hitchcock's Rear Window's said – a movie singularly apt to our situation, I'd say – 'it only takes one witness to spoil the perfect crime.' If only someone of our office might locate a witness of, say, doctor Mortimer's demise…"

"We don't have a witness, and the whole of our office is on board, for some odd reason," the detective pointed out.

"But the murderer doesn't know it. He can't be absolutely sure, now can he?" John replied, winking.

"When are we springing the trap?" Sherlock queried, an impatient light in her eyes.

"Tonight. He'll be half-asleep and more easily manipulated. Until then…we do are in a first class cruise ship, and it can't be that everything is a deadly trap. I have to stay here, but why don't you go and make use of some of the amenities? Or just check that Mrs Hudson isn't terrorising any of the girls?" the former thief proposed, smiling.

"Sure. If you don't want me around. Should I send for Milly?" she bit back, quite annoyed.

"It's not like that, and you know," John groaned.

"See you tonight, John." Of course, she didn't check the amenities of the ship. She wasn't here to play. She got to her cabin, locked herself in and slipped into her mind palace to clean things up. She needed to be perfectly clear-headed for tonight.

It was at one am that John finally decided it was time for their call (since Sherlock had arrived at eleven pm they had carefully not talked about how they'd spent the rest of the day).

Williams answered at the fourth ring, with a big yawn. "Who the hell is at this hour?"

"Sorry but I have just received interesting news, Mr Williams. You can stop pretending," John replied entirely too cheerfully.

"What?" the other man grumbled.

"Already forgotten shooting me? Am I that not memorable?" the doctor joked, a smile that his interlocutor couldn't see spreading on his face.

"Oh yes, you broke a leg. Did they give you drugs?" the publisher insinuated spitefully.

"We have a witness for doctor Mortimer's murder. You have been seen. You might as well turn yourself in. Maybe the judge will be clement," John continued, his tone conversational.

"You've had a nightmare and confused it with the truth. Go back to sleep, Mr Watson. So will do I," Williams insisted stubbornly. Oh well. Plan failed.

"John we're idiots," Sherlock cut in, with a frustrated groan.

"Why?" he queried. Fine, the man hadn't confessed, but it hadn't gone that bad, had it?

"If he destroys the letter of intent we have no evidence for his motive. I'm going to go and get it," the sleuth declared. John grabbed her by the clothes before she could run away.

"Well, we have the lawyer's statement about it. If he's not an idiot he'll have destroyed it already. And besides, you can't sneak in and search his room now. I've just woken him up," John objected hurriedly. The man had already killed many people. Did Sherlock really lack self-preservation at all?

"He'll have to fall asleep again sometime," she replied, freeing herself from his hold and leaving, heedless of the man's protests.

When the sleuth broke in his cabin, Williams was indeed asleep. Never to wake. There was a bullet hole in his right temple. No letter of intent in his room, though – she searched. Instead, a marriage certificate. To one Milly Fairbrush?! Why was she fawning over John, then? Really all for the article it'd come out? Or did she want a lover? Or…She went back, frowning. She needed to get Milly out of her mind. She had a case at hand.

"Why so unsatisfied?" John asked, once she explained her findings. "Sure, I didn't think I was quite so dreaded that telling someone I'd discovered their game would make them kill themselves on the spot, but at least the murderer won't hurt anyone else."

"It wasn't suicide, John. Williams was left-handed," the sleuth pointed out sharply. Nobody could be in his room and not notice it. "He wouldn't have shot himself on the right side."

"Then you think someone else killed us bachelors – and then him?" the former thief queried. Did they need to restart everything?

"Oh no. Our reconstruction was exact. Williams killed these people and attempted to your life. He was stupid enough to steal his criminal plans from a widely known book. But he hasn't killed himself. Someone else was aware of what was going on. And I suspect that Williams was always meant to take the fall for it," Sherlock hypothesized. It was the only thing that would explain all the facts.

"Who, then?" John asked, clearly very curious.

"I need more evidence. And I still have to find the letter of intent. If this was the partial solution they wanted us to find, it's very possible that it is still somewhere," she stated, nervous energy making her walk up and down the room.

"I wish I could come with you," the hurt doctor groaned from his bed, frustrated.

"Why don't you keep flirting instead?" the detective proposed blithely. Or at least sounding so.

"Sherlock…" he pleaded. He hadn't come here to flirt with anyone but her, no matter what he'd been obliged to do. And he didn't get to do any of that. It was exasperating. And she was needling him. As if it wasn't bad enough to be stranded here with a broken leg.

"It might keep you entertained," she countered, leaving without even looking at him. "I'll let Milly know you're available."

She did, with great pleasure of her (not rival – she wasn't interested) and then went to Tilly Briggs. "Mr Williams – where could he keep some important documents if not in his room?" she inquired without preamble.

"Why don't you ask him?" the supervisor replied, raising an eyebrow.

"Hard to answer when you're dead don't you think?" the sleuth snapped sharply. She needed answers now!

"What?" Tilly yelped, shocked, at her blurting out things like that. Less shock and more usefulness. Wasn't the woman supposed to have gotten her pulse on the situation?

"The documents. Where?" Sherlock insisted harshly.

"He has a private office in the third deck, but why – how – who?" the woman stammered, still not having recuperated all her bearings clearly.

"Murder, of course. Do not worry. We'll catch the responsible. Even if I wouldn't be so anguished if I were you. Did you know that you were just his bit on the side?" the detective explained. She was being kind, wasn't she?

"What are you saying?" Mrs Briggs blurted out, outraged. Oh God please not denial. Denial was so boring.

"He was married," Sherlock replied coldly. Facts were facts.

"No he wasn't!" Tilly objected, her voice entirely too high-pitched for what the banal situation required.

"His marriage certificate is in his room. I've not removed it," the detective pointed out, shrugging.

"That bastard!" the woman hissed, charging towards his room. She'd handle the dead body too, hopefully.

It was easy to locate Williams' office on the third deck. Sherlock was surprised at finding the door already ajar, but she slipped in, not questioning good luck. Only she realized immediately she wasn't alone. Pitt Carey was examining the desk's drawer.

"What are you doing here?" the lawyer demanded arrogantly, as if he had any right to be here.

"I could ask the same don't you think? If it wasn't obvious that is," she sneered, lips curling in distaste.

"Obvious?" he echoed, disbelieving. Did he really think his actions weren't entirely readable? Please. She was better than that.

"You _smell,_ Mr Carey. You smell of a certain new widow. Not going to be single much more, are you? but aren't you scared of wedding someone who's killed her first husband? Unless of course it was you that pulled the trigger. I thought you were the type not to dirty his own hands, but maybe you didn't want to risk her messing up. As for what you want here…was she stupid enough to sign a prenuptial agreement? Of course she did. And this way none of you would get any of the five millions, that would go to some other heir. Pointless committing or inspiring so many murders, right?" Sherlock deduced, her words rapid-fire.

"So the great sleuth continues to solve cases even from his sickbed. I thought Watson might be prevented by his injury from detecting, but it seems I underestimated him," the lawyer spit out.

"No, I solved it," she pointed out, raising an eyebrow. Hadn't the man heard her? What more did he need?

"Don't make me laugh. You're nothing more than a pretty-looking lackey. Call him. And say exactly what I'll write on this notepad. Not one word off script," Carey bit back, drawing a gun. There was no doubt that it was loaded.

She obeyed. Gaining time, as it was. "Mr Watson," she said as soon as he answered the call (on the second ring). "I'm sorry, your theory was wrong, and the evidence you sent me to search for in Mr Williams' office isn't there. Williams worked alone. Nobody else is involved. Respectfully saying, you were wrong, sir." Then, at a nod, she ended the call. "Satisfied?"

"Yeah. Now let's go on the upper deck. Someone is going to have an accident," he promised darkly.

Of course, hearing that, John panicked. This wasn't Sherlock's style. It wasn't at all. She was under duress, no doubt. With no time to lose, and a useless leg, he was forced to ask Milly's help to leave the room. She was very accommodating. Naturally it was then that John realised he had no fucking idea about where Williams' office was. Fuck.

"Oh, don't worry dear, I know," Milly chirped, directing him towards the upper deck.

Once John saw where she'd dragged him, he protested vehemently, "Wait! It can't be here. I need to get to Sherlock _right now,_ don't you get it? she's in danger!"

"And what can you do?" Milly objected, derisive.

"Fuck off, Milly, I'm not letting her die! Be reasonable!" he yelled. Then his blood ran cold, when he understood. "Oh, but why am I asking you? You're the widow. Tibi prodest. You evidently have an accomplice, but you're part of this!"

"Very clever, detective," the young woman praised, but with ice in her voice. "Pity that now you're going to fall overboard."

"You think I'll let you?" he growled, drawing his gun. He didn't expect Milly to react quickly, kicking him, making him lose his equilibrium and twisting ferociously his arm until he was forced to drop the gun.

Just then Sherlock and Carey came up from another hatch. Seeing John like that, Sherlock decided it was time to stop playing with Carey and kicked the man's gun swiftly out of his hands. At least evening out the odds. Ignoring the angry lawyer, she charged at Milly.

An angry scuffle later, including three shots (both men had recuperated the respective guns) and an impossibly quick to follow exchange of punches, kicks and even scratches, both criminals were subdued (though John was pretty sure he'd broken his other ankle).

The chaos had attired the attention of people, and some heavily-built sailors took Carey and Milly and would hold them in the best approximation of a cell they had until they got back to New York and the prisoners could be handled by the police.

"My piece is entirely ruined!" Mrs Briggs, who'd rushed to see what the problem was, wailed pitifully.

A day later, finally back at their flat after a run at the hospital (John's self-diagnose had proven correct – one leg and one ankle broken), the man had been instated on the sofa with both Sherlock's and Mrs Hudson's help. The older woman had puttered away, murmuring something about tea and scones. John expected the detective to murmur something about an experiment and leave him alone, but she loitered around, a distinctly guilty expression on her face.

"It was my kick that broke your ankle," she finally confessed, looking properly disconsolate, "I was aiming at that woman, but she moved too quick for me to stop myself."

"But you saved my life," John replied, unable to reprimand her further when she looked like that. "I'd underestimated Milly. I'm starting to think she might have thrown me overboard. Panic at being discovered makes people do awesome feats."

"Well, you saved mine too," Sherlock pointed out, clearly not feeling better. "I still need to apologise. I promise I'll be your nurse until you're well. But – I don't know how."

"You can start by playing something for me if you're in the mood?" he proposed.

"Of course, John," she agreed promptly, taking violin and bow. The supposed holiday-with-seduction might have gone to hell, but the former thief would never tire to admire his flatmate swaying gently to the music, eyes closed. Breaking something was worth it if he got proper concerts instead of nightly cat strangling (or so it sounded).

 _P.S. Tibi prodest is Latin and means "You benefit from it." I used it because when asking oneself who might have committed a crime the first question is, "Cui prodest?" Who benefits from it?_


	8. The geek AE-BE interpreter

_Disclaimer: I own nothing. I know, I know, this was supposed to be up last week, and today was supposed to be a rerun (if you follow me on tumblr you'd know). I fought really hard with writer's block. Initially I thought this chapter would be just a day or two late, but…well, it wasn't. At least it comes today. Will you forgive me, pretty please? I really had the hardest time with this. I am so sorry, really! Please forgive me, once again!_

Episode 8: The geek AE-BE interpreter

John discovered it while he was immobilized. Thanks to Mrs Hudson's teenager nephew. "Wow! You're SteelCapt!" the teen blurted out excitedly. He'd followed his aunt when she'd come up to bring John tea and biscuits since Sherlock was on a case. John had insisted that she took cases again, even if she complained that without him around people's idiocy was insufferable. But months had passed since that unfortunate cruise, and other would go on before he could get back to work. No matter her apologetic resolutions, the sleuth would have gone crazy (errr…crazier) if she only played nurse all the time.

The boy was a welcome distraction. "SteelCapt?" John echoed, curious.

"The new entry in the Kratides superheroes group," his visitor had explained, actually looking very much like John's colleague when she was asked to clarify something she thought patently obvious.

Which of course meant that once Sherlock came back, half an hour later, complaining that the case had been barely a three and that Lestrade was getting more incompetent than usual, she had been sent back out to a comic shop in order to buy the whole series. Still feeling guilty over John's injury, she'd barely scoffed at the request. John wasn't known for needing pastimes particularly brain-engaging (the reverse was actually true) so it made sense.

And when the owner of the comic shop had tried to sell her a set of fake claws, furred cat ears and a tail "because you could make such a glorious cosplay, dear," she'd just blinked uncomprehendingly at him, refused curtly and paid for her comics without even deducing what he used the figurines he sold for, She was behaving.

It all became clear once she brought the comics back to John, because apparently SteelCapt had a girlfriend/associate (pet?) called Blackclaw who was a sort of panther hybrid that looked considerably like Sherlock, if one added the feline features.

"Life would be so easy if I could keep you from being bored just with a bit of yarn!" John had teased gently, grinning while he showed the images to her.

The detective glared at him. "I'd unravel all your horrid jumpers for wool. Actually, that might not be such a bad idea," she countered, smirking. "So? Will you protest with whoever is behind this?"

"Why? It's free advertising, and we're still fighting criminals in this," the doctor replied. He was pretty smug about the whole thing, honestly.

"I'm not an animal," Sherlock objected, pouting.

"Oh, I don't know. You have something of the cat in you, I'd say," John needled her, smiling.

"John!" she protested, outraged.

"The stealth, Sherlock. The stealth," he pointed out quickly, raising his hands in a placating gesture.

The sleuth was mollified. A bit. "Still, heroes don't exist. And I don't know about you, but I definitely wouldn't be one of them. Besides, can you see me in a team?"

"I suppose you have a point. You'd be the solitary knight…Amazon…whatever type. I can't agree with you though. You could easily be a hero. Of course, if you don't want to, I'm not insisting," the former thief countered, looking warmly at her.

"I'm still of a mind to protest. Mrs Hudson should have a character," the detective pointed out, choosing not to embark on a discussion on the respective heroicness – or lack of it.

"Definitely," John agreed, nodding.

For a few months, this was all. John still read Kratides, Sherlock had taken to make the milk disappear not to risk any cat jokes, and that was it. Until Mrs Hudson, when the detective agency finally (after seven eternal months) had regained all its members, introduced a client that was another known face. Known from the comics, that was. "Hello, DarkScale," John greeted, grinning. He couldn't resist the joke.

"Harold Latimer, inker of Kratides. It was just a whim, giving that character my face. Almost nobody would know, after all." He gave John a long look, and pointed out, "I made you taller."

"Yeah, well, ta for that," the doctor replied, shrugging.

"Anyway, I should never have given that blasted character my face. It's a few weeks that whatever happens to him, happens to me too. I wouldn't want to have jinxed you too by taking inspiration," Latimer stated, frowning.

Sherlock scoffed loudly at the word 'jinxed' – as if such an idiotic notion could actually be true – then she demanded curtly, "Details."

"It started two weeks ago," Latimer related meekly, apparently unfazed by her rudeness, "DarkScale fought that wolf hybrid, and when I went for my usual walk in the park – I have one every day, around the same time, one needs to oxygenate the brain, you know – a rabid dog attacked me. It was literally foaming at the mouth. I ran home and it was just chance that I wasn't rent apart. But I thought, hey, I had a bad day. The following week, Kratides' enemies discovered DarkScale's secret identity, and they tried to run him over while he went around his normal business, and a car didn't stop at the red light and almost did me in. But once again, I didn't think any of it. Maybe the driver was a drunk, or something. But this week, someone cut my brakes – like in the strip. I'd gone on an outing to the Chenango River and I barely managed to jump from the car before it crashed."

"So the question is: who wants you dead?" the detective asked, with her usual tact.

"No one. I have no enemies. Hell, I barely have friends. My social life isn't that – no matter. My work is my life, and I've never had a disagreement with anyone. It's all the comic's fault. I came only because I was worried for you," the inker insisted stubbornly.

"If for the wrong reason, you've come to the right place. Brakes don't cut themselves, and people don't do that kind of thing for fun. They do it in order to murder. You might be sure that you have no enemies, but you've gained at least one, and a stubborn one, apparently, if with a terrible taste in inspiration," she pointed out sharply.

"Terrible? Kratides?" Latimer queried, raising an eyebrow in disbelief, and with a tad of tremor in his voice. Oh my God, he wasn't going to cry, was he?

"My colleague isn't much keen on comic books in general. She didn't mean to disparage your work," John justified, raising a placating hand. (Thank God for his presence and his ability to deal with unreasonable clients.)

"Oh, I'm just the inker. Kemp comes up with the plots. He's got me the job, you know? I can't be grateful enough to him," the man squealed, entirely too humbly.

"Yes, well, we're taking the case. In the meantime, I'd take a careful look at what I ink and take my precautions accordingly, if I were you," John suggested emphatically. This was the first man he'd met who had even less self-preservation instinct than Sherlock. He didn't think that would have been possible, but apparently, it was.

They went to the publishers next, and the secretary, a young boy called Chris Melas, didn't ask anything better than to talk about the artist. He might have, in truth, had more than a little crush on the other man, and for once Sherlock didn't feel the need to point that out.

Chris explained how Kratides had lost popularity and risked cancellation, before the author, Wilson Kemp, found and proposed the new inker. With the new style, and the addition of some new characters, the comic's popularity had soared anew. The credit for it should have gone all to Latimer, but Kemp refused to recognise it and give him the due praise, to the point that he became angry if someone mentioned how wonderful the new art style was. "I would like to be able to say that Latimer became Sophie's – Kemp's wife – lover as some sort of revenge, or to spite him. But truth is, he still worships the land Kemp walks on despite that. I just think he's constitutionally unable to deny anything to anyone bearing the last name Kemp. Sophie wanted him, and she got him," the young man recounted, grimacing in distaste.

Well, that certainly gave Kemp a motive in case he realised that. but one should never stop at the first track. "Did Latimer have arguments with anyone else of his colleagues, to your knowledge?" John queried, trying to think of all the possible suspects.

"It wasn't even properly an argument," Chris remarked, hesitant. "Harold had an idea for a new comic series, and he came to propose it to the manager. Well, he was told in no uncertain terms – and a bit too loudly, if I may add an opinion – that we had no empty spots for experiments, and that Kratides had changed inker once and could do so again. Then the manager added something in Latin."

"Sutor, ne ultra crepidam?" the doctor hypothesized, smiling. That looked like a good bet.

"Yeah, that," the secretary agreed, still clearly puzzled.

"It means do not overstep the limit of your abilities," John explained charitably. It wasn't such a bad suggestion, really.

"Latimer argued his point, and managed to extract a promise that his series would be taken into consideration anew if some other comic series ended. Still, naturally, he was depressed," Chris related clearly sympathetic.

"Did you cheer him up?" Sherlock sneered. It seemed she couldn't keep herd deductions of the young man's wishes to herself any longer.

"Oh no, he wouldn't look at me twice," the secretary admitted, blushing in discomfited embarrassment.

They left the office. "Well, but the manager could simply fire him if he wanted to," John pointed out reasonably.

"Unless he didn't want Kemp to protest, protecting his protégé. Feeble, I admit, Kemp has much better motivations, but we need to gather all the data yet," Sherlock stated, but she looked unconvinced herself. She just found unsatisfying when all things pointed clearly in a direction, and hoped for an alternative. Why had they even been consulted if everything was obvious? Simply because Latimer was too blind to accept the truth?

"What do we do?" John queried, ready to indulge her.

"Talk once again with Latimer. I'll text him we're coming," she decided, hoping to unearth something, anything that made this anything but the most classic adulterous drama.

If John hadn't been a doctor, Sherlock would have never forgiven herself that text.

 _Mr Watson is of British origin right? I'll put on the kettle,_ Latimer replied to her message. Which was why, when he didn't answer his door, John had no qualms picking the lock, his partner winking approvingly at him for always bringing the trappings of his previous job. The loud hiss of a kettle could be heard, but the kitchen was full of a sour smelling gas. Bitter almonds smelling gas. They dragged the unconscious Latimer out of the room, Sherlock grateful for her scarf which automatically filtered the air for her – if only a bit.

Once the young man was out of his apartment, John checked the man over and deemed him not gravely poisoned, taking the intervention of the case. Thank God they arrived in time – he had to have breathed it for no more than a few seconds.

Latimer came back to consciousness coughing harshly. "What happened?" he queried weakly, voice still hoarse.

"Cyanide capsules. In your kettle. So as soon as you heated it the gas would get free and poison you," she explained curtly. Hopefully that'd wake him up from his self-delusion.

"Fucking strip. Darkscale faced poison, too," the inker complained as loudly as he could. He couldn't still believe it was some…supernatural influence of the comic, could he? Nobody was that idiotic.

"The comic's not out yet," John remarked quietly.

"No, I was inking it right now. I just received it," the young man said, nodding. "You might have seen the illustrated boards in the kitchen table – the kitchen has the best lighting so I always work there."

"You know what this means? That Kemp is your murderer wannabe. Did he come round recently?" John asked sternly. The man needed to face the facts.

"He's been here yesterday, to ask about how I was faring after all the recent accidents. He was afraid I might refuse to collaborate with him any longer. See? He cares for me. he can't be the one," Latimer replied stubbornly.

"Oh for God's sake you can't be so blind. You fucked the man's wife behind his back, if he's discovered it it's no wonder he wants you dead. He can certainly find another inker," Sherlock blurted out, scowling.

Latimer blushed, and stammered, "No, it's not like that. Sophie – she told me Wilson, well, Kemp didn't care. About it, about her, about anything. That he wouldn't mind."

"Oh please. And you believed it?" she replied, rolling her eyes.

"I would never do anything to hurt Kemp," the inker bleated. No man could be that much of an idiot, could he?

"Anyway, we need to call the police," John interjected. They would present the case and let the cops deal with it. It was obvious, so Sherlock would probably agree that not even them could botch this up.

"No! I – please. Not yet. I'm sure this is all a huge misunderstanding," Latimer pleaded. Really, was the man suicidal?

"The strip the aspiring murderer followed aren't even published yet!" the former thief pointed out sharply, unable to comprehend such attitude. The lemmings had more self-preservation than this man!

"Well maybe he talked about it with someone. Why don't you look into that? I'm sure he has. And if you're sure…at least give me awhile to come to term with things. A day? I need at least a day, please," the young man countered, eager to find another explanation.

"I'm not sure I trust you to survive another day," John grumbled tiredly. From the look Sherlock was giving their client, she agreed with him.

"Please," Latimer insisted, and they gave up. At least now the man was warned, and should be able to take care of himself for twenty-four hours.

…Or not. Latimer called them that evening, overexcited like a pup who just received a treat. "Kemp said that if someone is using the strip as inspiration to hurt me, the only thing to do is remove Darkscale from Kratides. And he wants my input on how to do it! Mine! He's never asked my suggestions before! See? He's looking out for me. You can't be right!"

"What? No – you can't go! Are you that stupid?" John yelled into the phone, but to no avail. Latimer countered, "I can't lose this occasion," and then he hung up on him. He actually hung up on him!

They searched for Kemp's address and ran over there, but when Sherlock and John arrived evertìything had already ended. A dead Kemp, shot by his own gun, and a shocked Latimer, who babbled about being attacked and managing to turn the weapon's muzzle against him. "Will you explain to the police? I didn't want to, it's not my fault, it's not…" he whined pitifully

John reassured him, promising they'd go to the police the following morning. They had friends there, and would be heard out. Latimer thanked them with the same overeagerness he seemed to do everything.

"A silly tale, but a happy end one at least," he commented when they left the crime scene.

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure," Sherlock countered, frowning.

"Why?" the former thief queried, taken aback.

"Oh, some odd details. For example: in his kitchen there was a particular blue pencil. The details one add with it won't show on print. Why would he do that if he's just the inker? He's not supposed to toy with the images. Let me check some things, would you? I think we've accepted too many statements without double-checking the facts. There might be more than helpless stupidity at play here," she replied, with a clearly hopeful look on her face.

"How can I deny you anything when you look like that?" John agreed, smiling.

The first order of business was, apparently, checking if the cut brakes attempt and – much more – their client's survival from it was credible. The experiment involved driving along the same road he'd taken without using the brakes once. As much of an adrenaline addict as he was, it wasn't long before John started to plead with her to slow down. He didn't fancy particularly dying in a car crash after surviving a war. It looked…anticlimactic. And unsightly. Yeah, that was the word. Unsightly. Sherlock, however, claiming with what might be a slightly hysteric laugh "For science, John!", continued driving crazily, barely keeping them from colliding with other passing cars or going off the road. Until even she gave up, survival instinct stronger than scientific interest, and she braked brusquely.

"We're still quite far from the place he said he had an accident. I think we might agree that that attempt on his life stemmed from our client's imagination," John concluded for her. It posed a mystery, of course. Why would their client claim attempts being made against his life when it wasn't true? Well, it was true – the cyanide attempt had happened, they could vouch for it – but then again, the man in the best position to mess with the kettle was Latimer himself…

An investigation to the post office (or, well, breaking in and helping themselves to their documents, as it was already closed), then, revealed that Kemp had never sent anything to Latimer. Not once in the last month. Rather, their client regularly sent Kemp things. The comics, obviously. The complete comics – if he created them from scratch, the presence of the invisible-on-print pencil in his house made sense.

"But how – why – it doesn't make any sense," John complained, more to the air than his partner.

"Apparently the new and improved Kratides was entirely Latimer's creation," the detective explained, huffing.

"Yeah, ta, I got that by myself. It still doesn't explain why Kemp got credit," he replied, snarky.

"Kemp discovered him, and must have trapped him in a straitjacket contract that allowed Kemp to take credit for his work, probably for a number of years. No wonder Latimer wanted him dead," the sleuth elaborated, shrugging.

"And we were supposed to persuade everyone it was self.-defence. He planned this since SteelCapt and Blackclaw came along. Three months ago," John realized. This was…a twisted sort of plan. Latimer flattered them by inserting them in the comic only to dupe and use them easier.

"Yes, well, he underestimated us," Sherlock declared smugly.

"You, you amazing genius – I'd fall for it," her partner admitted.

The detective didn't mean to, but she blushed. Really, no matter how commonplace it was becoming, John's eager praise never failed to warm her heart – and often her face, too. "We need to talk to the publisher," she decided then.

John luckily managed to persuade her to postpone until the following morning – he doubted that the publisher would be very incline to hear them out if they dragged him out of his bed at this hour.

They welcomed him in his own office, the day after – Sherlock couldn't believe how late the man appeared (well, not very late, but to an impatient sleuth the last few hours had seemed eternal) and had let herself in once again. Of course, John had followed her – and somehow managed to smooth over the man's feathers, ruffled by the invasion, assuring him they had very important things to discuss about Kratides.

"Kratides?" the publisher had replied, taken aback. "Kemp's dead now, and Sophie – his wife – she owns a share of the publishing company, and she agrees that Kratides should be put to rest with her husband. And Latimer has that new comic ready…it could work. I mean, it wasn't such a bad idea, even if I yelled at him – I wanted him concentrated on our bestseller, obviously."

Sherlock didn't reply to that, but opened a tab on the man's pc. "Here. Sendai," she said simply.

"And what's that?" the publisher replied, looking puzzled at the screen.

"She's a fanfiction author. I don't have to explain to you what fanfiction is, do I?" the sleuth announced haughtily. For someone who hadn't known what it was until that night, and whose plan had been abundantly fleshed out by John, she managed to behave as if ignoring it would have been ridiculous.

When the publisher nodded, she added, "In her stories, she's brought Kratides over to United Kingdom and added a bit of new cast. Just take a look at her plots – they're wonderful. You would have many stories already ready for publication, and I'm sure she wouldn't be against offering more. There is no need to end Kratides."

The publisher read speedily through a couple of stories, and grinned. He shook their hands, replying gratefully, "Thank you so much. I wouldn't have thought of this. Kratides is my most popular series, and I was worried about seeing it disappear, but with Kemp gone…and now I don't have to. I wouldn't have thought that among fans there could be such gems, that's why I never looked that way. We're definitely adding the Leprechaun to the cast!"

"Latimer won't be happy about that," John pointed out, with a lopsided grin, when they left the building.

"That's what I count on. He'll attempt something – and we'll be ready for it," the detective countered, smug. She doubted that the police would figure out the truth about Kemp on their own – Latimer was a fantastic liar. But if they could prove that he never hesitated to kill – or attempt to – in order for his own comic to be published, even Gregson – which Sherlock had been informed had taken the case – should understand that their wasn't baseless chatter. The inspector had been reluctant to believe her in the past, which was why Lestrade's career had been considerably quicker.

"Can I suggest a joke?" the former thief asked, a mischievous look in his eyes.

"And what would that be?" Sherlock countered, looking interested.

"That's not a job for John Watson. He's almost fallen for Latimer's plot. SteelCapt, on the other hand, wouldn't. and he'd be pissed at a villain trying to use him," he quipped.

"You're not a superhero, John," she reminded him with a sigh.

"I can be. Let's get the costumes. Come on," her partner cajoled.

Sherlock had no idea why she ultimately agreed. This was supposed to be work, not play. But when John got so enthusiastic about a project, it would be downright cruel to deny him. There was a boyish side to him that was…no, don't say adorable. Don't even think it. But if not that, what?

She knew this was a terrible idea. For one, a stakeout shouldn't be a time for giggling. But just glancing at each other made them snicker quietly at how ridiculous they looked. And – well, such a stupid costume shouldn't make her pupils dilate, but – no, no, it wasn't that at all. It was the dark causing the dilation, nothing more. And her blood sang for the excitement of the hunt, not – not that damned, rigorously only self-admitted military kink of her – it was a ridiculous fake uniform, come on! And the same went for John, certainly, and his appreciative glances were only her imagination.

Anyway, they were decidedly too distracted for a stakeout. So much so that if Latimer hadn't been obscenely loud in his coming (he wasn't a very capable assassin, after all) they would have probably missed his arrive. But they didn't, and John – sorry, SteelCapt – left their hiding spot, gun in hand, stopping him while he was trying with evidently poor skill to pick the lock of the publisher's home.

Latimer threw a look at him and rolled his eyes, blurting out, "Oh, come on, that's ridiculous!"

"That's what I told him too," Blackclaw agreed, joining them, "but I have to admit that I admire you. You're considerably cool in front of a gun aimed at you."

"That doesn't come with the costume?" Latimer whimpered, in a high-pitched squeak.

"You've never seen a true one? Not even as research for your drawings?" It was John's turn to roll his eyes. Honestly, this man.

"Anyway, police captain Gregson is almost here, and you'll have to give him some explanations," Sherlock pointed out sharply.

"I just wanted to play a prank on my boss," the murderer bleated.

"Hard to sustain when you'll be found with a lethal weapon on you, don't you think?" she countered, smirking.

Latimer's face twisted in a grimace of impotent fury, but with John's gun still calmly trained on him he dared not do anything.

"Even Gregson should be able to understand your plan now, and we'll explain all about Kemp – the _actual_ truth of it, not the one you fed us so carefully," the masked sleuth added smugly.

"You were supposed to be on _my_ side," Latimer complained in a whine.

"We're not actually your characters, you know? I'm giving you one good suggestion you should recognise, though. If you're good at something, don't do it for free. It would have saved you Kemp's murder," John countered, unsmiling. (Which meant he wasn't that angry at the poor sod, probably pitied him, but Latimer had no way to know that.)

Then Gregson arrived, and he took their prisoner away. He looked at the both of them twice, raising an eyebrow, but – to his eternal credit – not laughing.

"We'll explain all the details of the case tomorrow morning…after we've changed," John told him, now looking mildly bashful.

"And that was for?" the police captain inquired, puzzled.

"Dramatic irony. And maybe a form of contrapasso," Sherlock explained, apparently perfectly at ease in her costume.

"What?" Gregson asked, not understanding the last word.

"Never mind, Gregson, we have to go. Any decent dictionary can solve your doubt," she huffed impatiently.

John gave the policeman a nod in apology, and followed her. He knew he was gaining a reputation as a pushover among the police forces, but didn't mind in the least.

"We deserve a reward, I'd say," the detective stated once they were alone, walking in search of a cab who'd take two ridiculously dressed people.

"Oh yes," her partner agreed.

"Are you still interested in that weekend in Paris?" she offered, a twinkle in her eyes.

"God yes!"


	9. Are we still pretending?

_Disclaimer: I own nothing still. I am very very sorry this comes a day late, but Sunday I've been to the cinema to watch Mr Holmes and it messed up all my schedule. I don't regret it though._

Episode 9: "Are we still pretending?"

When John got back from the shopping, he was welcomed by Sherlock holding a golden ring and offering it to him – right past the door – with a bashful smile. She might not be on her knees, but it was quite impossible to mistake the situation – she was proposing. Marriage. He dropped the bags where he stood and gaped for a second – or two. Then, he quipped, voice surprisingly steady, "Traditionally it is the man doing the asking. And while I know you loath tradition, usually both parties are aware they're dating before taking one such step. Though I suppose we could consider…"

She blushed and cut in quickly, "No! No, no, nothing like that. a client came in while you were out. A divorce lawyer. Someone's trying to kill him. And we're supposed to go undercover – as clients. He suspects some of the wives (well, soon to be ex-wives) of his clients might be behind this. That's what you need a wedding band for. It's part of your cover."

It was John's turn to blush brightly and stammer, "Oh. A case. Of course – of course it would be. So we're divorcing before we get to have any of the good stuff together, are we? Pity, that." Cheeky, yes, but he couldn't help himself.

"John," she warned sternly. That wasn't even flirting. That was...joking, that's what it was, surely. She gave him a file that laid on the table. "Here's your cover story. I expect you to learn it quickly. In two hours we have a meeting with John Straker – our client – and his wife so he can tell you all about his case in person. We're pretending to be clients so you can talk without alerting and worrying his wife. He wants to talk as soon as possible, and he doesn't want to give up the engagement he had with his spouse. He insisted on you going to him."

"I'm sorry," John replied automatically. He was angry at their client already – the man had not trusted Sherlock even to relate things properly, and wanted to see him in person to repeat what he could have known from her. Why had they taken his case? Such behaviour didn't deserve it. Then, opening the folder, he protested, "Jacob and Weslyn Sigerson?" What kind of names are those? Did you delete every character of the movies I made you watch? There are plenty aliases to pick there. I always did – before."

"Oh yes, because going like Mr Oliver and Mrs Barbara Rose wouldn't sound fake at all," she snarled. And well, she might have a point – with _these_ names.

"Fine, not Rose, but still – your names are ridiculous!" her partner objected loudly.

"Siger means victory in Swedish," she pointed out, shrugging his complaint away.

"So miss logic picks auspicious aliases?" he replied, a smile tugging at his lips.

"It's not superstition," she spit out, angrily. "I just…I liked it."

"Oh fine, Sigerson it is," John caved in, smiling. "You don't have to get so defensive, you know – it was all in good humour. I know you, Sherlock."

Two hours later saw them on a golf course, but it wasn't long after their arrive that Straker left' the girls' to play (and how awfully Judith Straker played, too) with the not-even-excuse of a 'business meeting' with Mr Sigerson.

"Thank you for having made time to see me despite your undoubtedly busy schedule," Straker said, leading him towards the bar annexed to the course. "It is so…inconvenient that I should be targeted right now. I mean to retire soon. The continual experience of other's people pain and bitterness is so…exhausting. I long for a simpler, quieter life. But someone is determined not to let me get to that. three days ago, I got into my car and it had been rigged so that the exhausted fumes would get back inside the vehicle. Luckily I noticed it before I lost consciousness, and abandoned the car."

"Do you have any suspects?" John – no, Jacob now – asked – softly, so not to be overheard.

"I am following four divorce trials at the moment. All the wives of my clients would love to see me out of commission. They know that they have no chance to win the lion's share with me against them," the lawyer replied smugly.

"And cheers for modesty," John couldn't help but quip.

"I am the best – and I came to you because you are, too. Underestimating oneself benefits no one," Straker declared, shrugging.

"Right, of course. Now, I suppose these women can be met in court. Will you be working tomorrow?" the detective agreed, not seeing the point in starting a discussion about proper attitude.

"Yes, of course," the lawyer answered simply.

"We'll be there – and play our cards," John decided, then leaving the man to himself.

The following day, in the late afternoon, saw them all in court. The lawyer had just left the courtroom after a sharp, witty summation, when John accosted him. "Mr Straker, when is my hearing going to come?" he asked impatiently.

Just then, Sherlock arrived, marching with long, angry strides. Yelling, "You double faced, betraying, idiotic hobbit!" (John had helped her out a bit with the script). She swung her purse angrily, but both Straker and John ducked flawlessly.

"Practice makes perfect," the lawyer quipped with a complicit look at his fake client, who was already replying, just as loud, "Maybe if you weren't such an emotionally stumped, arrogant, oblivious bitch!"

The sleuth had to refrain from smiling. Good performance, John. Good performance. Very believable. A short-haired blonde with a powder blue pants suit that had left the courtroom just in time to watch the exchange came to her and put a gentle hand on her arm. The detective had to make herself not balk at the touch.

"Believe me, sister, he's not worth it. they're never worth it. come with me – you're officially part pf the club now," the strange woman prompted kindly.

"The club?" Sherlock asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

"The you're going to be ruined by Straker club. It's my hearing that just ended. Eva – Eva Brackenstall," the blonde explained with a grim smile.

"Weslyn Sigerson. I suppose I should meet your club members," she agreed with a shrug and a smile of her own. Perfect! Everything was going according to plan.

Eva led her to a nearby bar, and Sherlock was introduced to all the other club members. Mary Fraser, a slim redhead with bright eyes, who was divorcing a famous car racer. Hilda Trewlaney, a Mediterranean beauty, soon to be ex-wife of a wealthy banker. And Annie Harrison, whom her politician husband with a promising career suddenly found inadequate, once an older and more powerful congressman's daughter had winked at him.

It seemed the only reason for the club's meetings was to drown the respective sorrows in as much alcohol as one could stand. It did make for an easy source into a wealth of knowledge. Hilda rated each drink – she'd started a wine bar with the funds she had of her own, still nothing comparable to what she felt she should obtain from her husband. Mary had fallen back on her knowledge of shiatsu massage to find a job. Annie was helping a cousin with her flower shop. As for Eva, she'd married her university professor and now that that had fallen into ruin, she was looking into publishing a romance book based on her autobiography – minus the pitiful ending.

Each felt deeply wronged by her husband, and perhaps more so from the bloody lawyer twisting facts against them. "What the fuck is Straker doing here?" Hilda hissed, when the lawyer himself entered the bar, John trailing behind him.

"Never mind that – who's the eye candy with him?" Mary quipped, openly ogling.

"He's mine. You go to find your own," Sherlock protested immediately, sullen and perhaps too loud.

"You're divorcing that muffin? Why?" Annie quipped, refilling for the umpteenth time the sleuth's glass.

"He flirts with anything that breathes. For all I know, he flirted with Straker, too!" Sherlock moaned, letting her head fall on the table, barely cushioned by her arms.

Eva sized her up with a long look, before getting up to order a stronger drink for her. "You poor thing. You're still besotted," she declared, patting her sympathetically on the shoulder.

" 'M not" the sleuth protested, slurring her words.

"Look, I was the same. I didn't want to divorce. I wanted Tom to stop treating me like one of his trophies. But when I complained, he went to Straker, and in a hour he was convinced that a divorce was the only sensible thing. Straker talked to me. afterwards, and he convinced me of the same too, no matter how much I didn't want to give Tom up. He's like an used car salesman," Mary narrated, sighing deeply.

"I _don't_ love him," the detective protested again, with a bit of a mewl in her voice.

"Sure, sure, sister, whatever you say. You need another drink now, though," Hilda said, laughing loudly.

"He's coming here!" Annie whispered excitedly.

"I'd say you've had quite enough to drink, Wes," John murmured, helping Sherlock up by the arm.

"What do you care?" the sleuth whined, confrontational.

"I want a divorce, not to become a widow due to alcohol poisoning. It wouldn't be half as fun," he quipped, looking reproachfully to the gathering of half-smashed women at the table. "Come on, I'll bring you home," he prompted quietly.

Sherlock stumbled and half-nuzzled him, even while she murmured, "Don't like you. I've made _friends_."

"Home, Wes," John insisted again, holding her up and trying to manoeuver her away from their suspects.

"Fine," she finally huffed. "Bye, girls." She waved exaggeratedly, and her new acquaintances waved back. Sherlock was just a few paces away, but could still hear Eva declare giggling, "He still cares for her. How sweet!"

"I'd 'lmost solved that," the sleuth complained in a whine, once safe in the cab.

"You were going to give yourself away – or pass out. That's what drunks do. Believe me, I know," John replied, unamused.

" 'mnot," Sherlock slurred sullenly.

"Then deduce the cabbie for me," her partner challenged, quirking a smile.

"He's…a man?" the detective said, squinting her eyes.

"Aren't we sure about that?" John teased good-humouredly.

"Oi!" the outraged, bearded cabbie protested loudly.

"Sorry, my friend's drunk," the former thief apologized automatically, then goading her, "What else?"

"Maybe I'm tipsy. A bit," Sherlock conceded, which clearly meant she had nothing to add.

"Yeah. Maybe," John agreed, smirking.

"The world's shaking…steady me?" she requested, plaintive.

"Yes, of course," he agreed.

The sleuth somehow ended up curled up all over John. "That's better," she sighed, content.

"Yeah," he agreed softly. "Much." And damn him for having enough of a conscience not to take advantage of the situation (well, if he did that he'd ultimately get surely evicted and maybe jailed, so keeping his instincts under control was for the better). He could card his hand gently though her hair, though, that wasn't a mistake. She purred at that.

At home, though, it was some water and then bed for her. Alone, even if she tried to keep a hold of him, but she fell asleep soon enough. Still, there was no doubt that she'd have a ferocious headache when she'd wake up, no doubt.

When Straker called, in a panic, at three in the morning, saying he just woke up to hear someone tampering with his car, John tried to tell Sherlock that she could sit this out. "It was probably a nightmare anyway," he claimed.

But the phone call had woken her up, and she wouldn't hear of it, despite still being unsteady on her feet. "You forget who's the actual detective out of the two of us," she hissed, cranky. It was clearly the hangover, and John didn't hold it against her.

When they arrived, they were welcomed by the furious barking of two white, lean, strong, luckily chained up dogs. "Sandor! Gregor! Heel! Shut up! Oh my – I'm sorry, the only one these beasts respond to is my wife, and yesterday she got a call from a hysterical friend, asking her to spend the night," the lawyer yelled over the racket.

"Now, Mr Straker, are we certain that you didn't just have a nightmare? Being threatened can do things to people's nerves," John said oh-so-very reasonably.

"I was awake! Don't you think I know the difference between awake and asleep? And someone. Was. Tinkering. With. My. Car!" Straker insisted, outraged.

"I'll look it over, but I'm not a mechanic, mind," the former thief warned with a shrug. "It looks fine," he declared after a quick exam, "but the only way to be sure is to make a trial run." "Say a little prayer for me," he added in a whisper against his partner's ear.

Her eyes telegraphed fear. "Should you…?" they asked wordlessly, but John didn't let himself be strayed by her concern. He was already in the car. The moment he tried to engage reverse, the car jumped forward – and a moment later it exploded.

The soot and smoke obscured the shocked onlookers' vision…and at the same time, Sherlock lost the contents of her stomach. Straker looked as disgusted by that as he was from John's emerging whole and hale, apparently having jumped out just in time, and with a sheepish grin on his face.

"The gears were switched – and it activated the bomb," John explained. "I'd never seen one like that." Which was the absolute truth. He was more an expert in grenades and mines.

"It looked fine, eh? I had a nightmare, eh? And your associate – she's drunk. Know what, Mr Watson, I believe I made a mistake considering you the best. You're fired," the lawyer growled angrily.

"But…" John tried to object.

"Fired, Mr Watson," Straker reiterated, rather vehemently.

"Your loss," Sherlock quipped. Getting back up and starting to leave with all the poise of a (still slightly unsteady) princess. Straker choked, rendered wordless by his own outrage, and John could only trot hurriedly behind her.

"Are we really giving up the case?" he queried, shocked. The sleuth loved her work.

"He'll come back on his knees," she assured smirking.

As always, she was right. Three days later, the lawyer called in what could only be described only as abject panic. "There's a sniper in front of my house!" he mewled. "She's shouting at me!"

"You've fired us, Mr Straker. Why should we care?" Sherlock, who'd answered the call, replied, smugly.

"You're hired back!" he shouted. "Just tell Mr Watson to get here before I'm dead!"

They hurried to the rescue, John grinning at the prospect to have a shoot-out. Sadly the shots ended as soon as they arrived, and while they could determine where the sniper had been hiding, she – or he, they supposed, it could have been a hired gun – had already fled by the time they reached it.

"Any clues?" John asked, clearly expecting her to solve the case.

"Our sniper hasn't been kind. No footprints, no hairs, no fingerprints. I can't work without data," Sherlock complained, frustrated.

"At least we know that she knows our real identities, and does not believe us to be Mr and Mrs Sigerson. She wouldn't have fled as soon as she was us, if she believed we were just clients coming to consult a lawyer," the doctor pointed out. But what did this mean for their case?

"I _told_ you that your eagerness for fame might end in good advertising and indeed bring in more cases but would have been a nightmare for actual work. For all we know everyone involved recognized you and is being too polite to mention it," the sleuth chided sharply. Articles on them? Bloody comics? That's what it came to. Missing their target.

John shrugged, and led her to Straker's – maybe the lawyer had some intel. Once again, as soon as they rang the bell, the dogs started a racket.

"I'm sorry to say, she's escaped us. But we were hoping you could tell us something more," the doctor said when the man opened the door.

"No, I've not anything to tell – I was making myself a coffee, when the first shot almost got me. I had enough sense to duck and stay as much out of the windows' opening as possible, and then called you. Never mind that you didn't catch her, never mind that – you saved my life with your prompt intervention. I have no doubt that she'd get tired of randomly shooting and she'd break in and murder me if you hadn't come. Let's celebrate. Coffee is not right for now – I don't want to get more agitated. But an anonymous, grateful client left this at my office. It's my favourite," the lawyer chatted away, talking quite quickly – still half-hysterical – and offering them a bottle of vintage wine.

Sherlock quickly snatched the bottle out of his hands. "Nobody drinks this before I've experimented on it," she declared loudly.

"What?" Straker blurted out, clearly uncomprehending.

"She's right, you know. Any anonymous gifts are more than a little suspect right now. What if it's poisoned?" John explained calmly, even if he thought it should really have been obvious to anyone with two brain cells (his partner was rubbing off on him).

The lawyer blanched. "Do you think –" he choked out, terrified.

"I won't think anything until the analysis' results. I promise we won't waste much of it, and that we'll return it to you if it's safe to drink," John replied. So maybe he'd stolen the sleuth's method of never theorizing before the data, but it was a good one.

"The earlier we leave, the earlier we'll have results," the sleuth pointed out, clearly impatient.

"Yes, yes, of course. Go – and thank you. You might have saved my life twice in an hour," Straker replied, smiling gratefully at them.

Back to their flat, Sherlock was having fun studying the wine. "I knew!" she blurted out, enthusiastic. "There's enough _N_ , _N_ ′-dimethyl-4,4′-bipyridinium dichloride in this to murder an entire party."

"Dimethyl what?" John echoed, frustrated. He was a doctor, but he didn't know the formula of every poison out there.

"An herbicide," she explained for the dim-witted.

"This is getting odder and odder," he remarked, frowning. "after that attempt with the car, I'd have bet on the car racer's wife, but this…this points to both Mrs Trewlaney, the wine seller, and Annie Harrison, with the flowers' shop. She certainly has herbicides on hand. There's only one thing to do now, you realise."

"And that would be?" the sleuth queried. John's initiatives were always something to consider attentively.

"I'll buy a bottle exactly like this one and try to get our suspects to toast with me. Only the murderer won't want to," he revealed, with a look that told that he believed it was obvious.

"And anyone else will want to drink with you? Think you are irresistible, do you?" Sherlock teased, grinning at him.

"I have my ways," John assured confidently.

The detective figured he had enough experience backing his confidence up, and repressed the useless, illogic irritation this caused her.

John stumbled into the flat hours later, clearly drunk. " 'T's not fair!" he whined.

"What?" she queried mildly amused – and very happy that they weren't drunk at the same time (God knew what might happen then).

" _Nobody_ drank a drop with me! I flirted, and cajoled, and challenged, and teased. I went all out. Not. One. Drop. Anyone," John revealed, clearly affronted by this slight at his seductive power. "I had to drink the whole bottle by myself," he explained, mournful. "Would you drink with me?" he added, sounding unsure.

"I will. Here," the sleuth said, pushing a glass towards him.

"That's water," John protested, with a(n adorable) pout.

"You can toast with water too, and you really shouldn't have more alcohol. Come on, John. To us!" she prompted, taking a sip of water herself, hoping that it would work (it did).

"To us!" he agreed, gulping down his water. They toasted together a few other times, always with water, to solving this case and to Mrs Hudson and to interesting murderers. Then John queried, "Lockie?"

"Lockie?" she echoed, baffled, not knowing how she should take her new nickname.

"I really, really like you," her partner confessed, smiling in a dazed way.

She sighed. "I like you too, John." More than she should, or than it would be wise, that was for sure. "Now off to bed with you," she prompted, taking him by the arm and helping him up the stairs to his bedroom. The last thing she wanted was for to him to take a tumble down them and get hurt.

Still, when he grinned and landed a butterfly kiss on her shoulder, she almost threw him down herself. Warn a woman, would you? Wasn't that the polite thing to do? "To sleep, John!" Sherlock growled sternly. "Don't make me regret being kind."

The drunk man pouted once again. " But Sheeer," he whined.

Thank God they were in his bedroom already. "Here we are. _Behave,_ John!" the sleuth said firmly. Now she only had to leave.

"Will you at least sing me to sleep?" John queried softly.

She kept in a laugh, but couldn't stop a smile. He'd gone from Don Juan to five years old in under a minute. She thought she had the exclusive on that trick. "I'll do better," she promised. He protested, holding out a hand from where he'd collapsed on the bed, when she made to leave, but she had to. A moment later a soft, sweet violin lullaby resonated in the house.

"That's it. We're holding a reunion of the suspects. At Straker's. I solved it," John declared the following day, when he'd stopped feeling like death warmed over.

"Did you?" the sleuth queried, raising a rather incredulous eyebrow. How can getting drunk be conducive to case-solving?

"I'll give you a clue: Some of us, in the words of the divine Greta Garbo, want to be alone. It's not from a Garbo movie, but I did make you watch this one – and I think you might remember the quote. It looks just up your street," the doctor said, with a lopsided grin.

"I don't need clues. I solved it, too," she huffed haughtily.

"Of course you did, what was I thinking. I'm informing our client he'll have to play host," John replied, shaking his head.

At Straker's, they were welcomed by the usual chorus of the dogs – but this time it was short lived. "Heel," Judith Straker hissed, and they quietened immediately. At least until the first guest arrived, Hilda Trewlaney, with a grim smile on her face. Every time someone came even near the house, the dogs started their ruckus back, and a now snappish Mrs Straket had to shut them up.

"So? What did you want?" Eva Brackenstall demanded when the reunion was complete.

"I've been asked to determine which one of you four ladies, which our victim suspected, was responsible for the attempts to murder Mr Straker. I've had the hardest time, then I realised that I was considering the wrong angle. There wasn't only one of you involved. It was a conspiration between all four of you – like in Murder on the Orient Express," John declared, looking rather smug.

Sherlock managed not to roll her eyes. Solved the case, indeed. She interjected quickly, "That's what police captain Lestrade would think, taking the hints at face value – the wine, the herbicide, the manumission of the car. But you've explained to me that this would be an even more crass error, boss."

"Did I?" John almost asked, baffled. But he was used enough to adapt plans on the spot that instead he agreed, without missing a beat, "Of course I did. Do you want to tell us?"

"Our most important clue is the curious incident of the dogs in the night-time – and in daylight, too," the sleuth revealed – if such an enigmatic sentence could even be classed as that.

"What?" Straker blurted out, comprehensibly perplexed. John was very glad someone had asked, since for acting's sake he couldn't do so himself.

"When you woke up to someone in your yard, messing up with your car, did you hear the dogs barking?" the detective asked, wondering how anyone could miss such big hints.

"What – no – I just heard the murderer mechanic. Or bomber. Or whatever," the lawyer replied, somehow uncharacteristically for someone who should be very eloquent.

"And when we came to deal with the sniper, the dogs were quiet – until they saw us. Can you imagine guard dogs not making a peep against gunshots much more, at someone invading their yard, their _territory_? Especially nervous ones like these?" Sherlock pointed out reasonably.

"Well, they were quiet," Mr Straker remarked, looking more and more bewildered.

"Because the one person who could control them calmed them, like she did today, isn't that true, Mrs Straker?" the detective concluded, turning to the lawyer's wife with a decidedly predatory expression.

"Judith wouldn't –" the lawyer objected, but his wife cut him in sharply, "I worked my ass off to pay for your studies. And now that you're famous and rich and I'm finally enjoying my life you want to retire God knows where. What did you tell me? 'In the midst of the desert, far away from humans and their silly troubles'? I invested on you, and now you want to rob me of my gain!" Her accusation was thrown in an angry hiss.

"Not all guilty – all innocents. We can go now, I texted Lestrade and he'll be here to collect her soon. I think Mrs Straker will be too busy arguing with her husband to flee," the sleuth remarked with a smirk.

"I'm borrowing him for a moment," Annie Harrison said with a mischievous grin, dragging John in a nearby room. After a short time, the former thief was back (and oddly, he didn't look shagged or kissed or anything-ed – not that Sherlock was complaining about that).

They were on the road in front of Straker's mansion, waiting for a cab, when John murmured against his partner's lips, "If you want to save my life, go along with this." And he kissed her. On the mouth. Passionately. She did go along with it – having him die would be terribly inconvenient (and fine, she was enjoying herself quite a bit too much). The former suspects whistled happily at the scene.

A cab stopped for them once they paused to regain breath, and that pause dragged long enough to tell the destination and for John to explain, "Nobody drank with me because they didn't want to hurt you by accepting my flirting. They said, and I quote, 'we obviously still love each other', so if I didn't start behaving and made you happy they would conspire. For my demise." And then he kissed her anew. They continued kissing all the way home, with some –short – pauses for breath interspersed in. And then John kissed her again against their home's door.

"Are we still pretending?" she queried, breathless. "They can't see you anymore, you know."

"Sorry, I got a little carried away. But I'm not kissing you for pretence – never have been. I'm kissing you because I've always loved you, and stopping didn't even cross my mind," he admitted, shrugging lightly.

"You. Love. Me?" Sherlock choked out, incredulous.

"Obviously," John replied cheekily. Hadn't it been bloody self-evident since day one?

"Then tell me the truth about you. I'm afraid I might love you back, but if I can't trust you, how can I give in?" she demanded.

"You're _afraid_?" the former thief echoed. This had to be the oddest declaration he'd received – and he did have quite a lot of experience on the matter.

"I am," she confessed honestly, a slight trembling in her voice.

"I will tell you anything that ever happened to me, I swear," John promised ardently. Of course, he didn't have much to gloat about regarding his life, but if full disclosure would get him Sherlock, then it was a small price to pay. He'd always thought that keeping his mystery would ensure she didn't bore of him, but apparently he'd been wrong.

"You will?" the sleuth wondered, incredulous.

"On one condition: you'll let me continue to be John Watson afterwards. I'm rather fond of him," he replied, smiling.

"I'm rather fond of him as well. Shall we continue the…conversation inside?" Sherlock offered, smiling back.


	10. Chapter 10

_Disclaimer: nothing mine. A. N. I know, I know, I can't apologise enough. This was meant to come in late November, but then writer's block happened, and December Sherlock Challenge of Awesomeness, and birthday fics…but this story is finally finished. Please don't hate me! (Or do, you'd be right to.) I can only say sorry, but here it (finally) is! I hope you enjoy! : - )_

Season Finale: Meeting the family.

"It's finally time, Mish," Harriet announced, grinning to him over her drink. When she'd asked to meet him – in a bar, why didn't that surprise him – he felt like he had no choice but to go. A rest of self-preservation instinct made him lie to Sherlock about whom he'd be meeting – somehow, he didn't think the two women would hit it off.

"Time for what?" he asked, a bit wary.

"The old Duke of Holdernesse finally kicked the bucket. Enter you as the long-lost son. I've arranged it all already," she declared excitedly.

"No, Harry. I've got a life here. I'm happy," he replied, trying to communicate how true that was. Of course, that had been an old plan of theirs, but…he didn't need a dukedom if he had Sherlock.

"With your pet detective, of course," Harriet recognised, waving it away as if it didn't matter. "But it doesn't even start to compare, Mish. Dukedom. You'd be loaded – and I'd be loaded, the Duke's sister. I want a flat on the French Riviera. Remember how you told me you'd get me one?"

"Why don't you just seduce a fortune heiress? You're charming enough," he tried, hoping flattery would work.

"Thank you for the vote of confidence," she giggled. "Gay fortune heiresses are rarer than you'd think, though."

"Still, I don't want to do this. I know it was in the plans, Harry. But I've changed," the former thief tried.

"Not that much, you haven't. I know you, little brother," she huffed. "And I have told everyone I found you! What am I supposed to say? 'Sorry, he fled'?" Harry pouted.

"Fine. I'll come back to England," he conceded, with a sigh.

She whooped.

"To tell them there's been a mistake," he added sternly. "And then I'll get back. I _like_ being John Watson, Harry."

"I've not watched that movie. Which one was it?" she queried, raising an eyebrow.

"No – Sherlock picked that alias," he admitted, smiling.

"Did she now?" his sister asked, with a penetrating stare. "No matter – I've got the tickets for us. Tomorrow we're gonna be on that plane, Mish. Or I'll hound you down." And she would, John had no doubt.

He went home looking suitably distraught. He didn't like lying to Sherlock, but he didn't want her to suspect he was going back to his old ways if she knew about Harry's plan either. "You know that old army friend of mine I told you I was meeting?" he queried quietly.

"Yeah. Sholto. The one who read about you, noticed your name change and was curious about it. Is he satisfied?" the sleuth queried, something like the shadow of apprehension in her voice. The last thing they needed was someone to come up claiming John Watson really wasn't John Watson – and he certainly couldn't have been for as long as she had claimed to work for him. Still, she didn't look up from the microscope at all, wanting to look as if she placed no importance at all on the matter.

John wasn't blind. There was no Petri dish on the microscope for her to observe. He very carefully didn't call her out on that little act. "It turns out that he had a more serious reason for wanting to see me – but of course, he couldn't say so until he was sure I wasn't just a surprisingly perfect lookalike," he related. He felt rather guilty for dragging his previous commander's name in this scheme, but it had been the first name that'd come to his lips when his partner had asked him whom he'd be seeing.

"What?" Sherlock asked, finally looking at him. This was…unexpected.

"Sholto had gone to my family first, thinking I might live with them, or that at least they'd know where he could find me, and wanting to catch up. He was my commander so he had my files, included which family members had to be warned in the case of my unfortunate passing and so on. That's how he found out. Harry's dying. Apparently the alcohol finally got the better of her liver. She's not expected to last much," John fibbed, choking properly on the last statement. Splendid act, if he did say so himself.

"Oh, John," she replied, and he wished that anyone who'd ever judged her as an unfeeling bitch could hear her now. She shared his pain, and he felt acutely guilty about it.

He'd told her about his early life as an orphan who was many times adopted because he 'looked cute' only to be sent back to the orphanage because of his 'violent tendencies'. The fact that he always got into fight to protect people bullied had never mattered.

Until the time Harriet – his sister at the time – had spoken up, pointing up 'Mish' (he really didn't like the name he'd received from who –knows- who, Hamish, but the affectionate Mish was almost…acceptable) had been helping her against fucking omophobes. Rather loudly and vehemently.

That time, he'd been allowed to stay. He supposed that had really become his family, if he ever could claim one. If only by acquisitive prescription. Harry hadn't even shunned him once he'd turned to not-entirely-legal business. She'd helped him plan, for a time…until they'd realised he worked even better alone.

"I have to go, you see," John concluded softly.

"Of course we have to go – I'll get the tickets," Sherlock agreed, in full organisational mode.

"No, I already did. And – I don't want you to come," the doctor replied. Now came the hard part.

"Why?" she queried, sounding half-wounded and half-panicking (what had she done wrong not to be allowed to comfort him oh my was he going back to England and not coming home anymore she'd done it she'd done it _what_ had she done?).

John could read her, and he was surprised himself to be able to read her, and his guilty feeling tripled. Still, what had to be done had to be done. He hurried to justify himself and reassure her, speaking softly. "Look, it might seem odd, but – that is Hamish's life. And he's had a pretty shitty life. Losing Harry is just the last nail in the coffin for him. I want to get back and find you here and be John Watson, God how I want to be, once I can bury Hamish and Harry together. John Watson is a very lucky man. And if you come with me, your presence will mix the two up and… it might make no sense logically, I'm sorry, I don't know how to explain it better, but it makes sense to me. And I don't want that. Please stay. I'll be back soon. I promise, love."

"I'm informing Mrs. Hudson," she concluded, and went down to their landlady/secretary's flat. But instead of doing what she'd told him, she simply announced to the old woman, "We're going to England, Mrs. Hudson. And with we, I mean you and I."

"Why, dear?" Mrs. Hudson queried – not protesting, just mildly curious.

"Because John is going, and he doesn't want me to follow – but he _lied_ to me," the sleuth revealed, groaning.

"Are you sure?" her second mom asked. John always did his best to make Sherlock happy – even before they were properly together. And he'd told her all his secrets after they started a romantic relationship. So, what was the boy thinking?

"That's the first time you doubt me," the detective complained, sounding actually wounded.

"I didn't mean – it's just – John wouldn't hurt you," Mrs. Hudson said. She firmly believed as much.

"I hope he doesn't mean to," Sherlock agreed softly. "But with a past like his, I simply can't help but worry. I mean, when your significant other starts lying the first thought is that he gained a lover. I _wish_ it could be anything so simple. It could be anything – blackmail, death threats…it wouldn't surprise me if he tried to keep me out of I, despite how illogic it would be."

"He's protective, our John," the old woman concurred, smiling. "That's not bad, you know."

"We're following him all the same, Mrs. Hudson," the sleuth declared, her tone brooking no argument.

"Of course dear, of course," the affectionate landlady nodded.

John wore his nice, tight-fitting black jumper (minus the ski mask, because he wasn't going to rob anyone – covertly at least) and black jeans when he followed Harry to meet his 'relatives'. Three cousins various times removed, while he was supposed to impersonate the long lost illegitimate son of the old Duke. His unfortunate love for John – sorry, James now – 's late mother was one of these romantic tragic tales better suited to a historic novel than to actual life. But as they say, reality surpasses fantasy sometimes… The old Duke had never stopped searching for his lost heir, and named him for the lion's share – and succession to his title, despite his being illegitimate – in his last will.

"Repeat with me," Harry insisted for the umpteenth time, anxious.

"Harry, I told you, I'm not going to play along," he sighed, exhausted.

"Indulge me," his sister whined – and as always, he ultimately caved in.

"There's Angus, the birdwatcher banker, who's forty-something, the twenty-five years old Charles, who wants to start a horse breeding farm, and Gwen, who's about our age and a photographer," he dutifully repeated.

"And we," Harry prompted, still unsatisfied.

"Are not brothers, otherwise anyone would suspect the scam immediately. There'll be time to reveal your status after we get the loot," he finished for her. Really, did his sister take him for an idiot? (Also, he really wasn't going to play along. But she refused to hear that no matter how many times he repeated it.)

Harry introduced him to his relatives – reunited in the castle's hall – with a grin and a flourish. A round of cheery welcomes echoed.

"Thank you so much, but I have to say something first," John – _James_ pointed out, raising a hand to ask for silence.

"Yes, dear cousin?" someone – it had to be Charles, the age matched – asked, clearly uninterested.

"I'm not the Duke's son," the doctor announced, loud and clear. Many reactions he'd imagined to such a pronouncement, but not a loud, general laugh.

"Oh. Such a quirky sense of humour. Just like uncle Sam," the one who had to be Angus chuckled.

"He has his father's nose – it's so cute," cousin Gwen remarked in a high-pitched voice.

"I'm really not," John insisted, not getting why people weren't jumping for joy at his announcement. Did they want him to have their money?

"Hasn't this joke gone on long enough? Miss Ormonde brought absolutely unquestionable documents," a sixty-something old man – that John knew he'd already met but couldn't place for the life of him – snapped, annoyed. Of course Harry had. She'd been planning this for so long.

"And you would be?" the doctor queried, automatically responding with a dose of arrogance of his own to the stern, snooty old geezer.

"I'm Robert Frankland, executor of my dear friend the late Duke, and I must repeat that I'm perfectly satisfied of the evidence, so let's proceed," the old man stated regally.

Oh fuck. Frankland – judge Frankland, who was infamous for the sternness of his verdicts. If John insisted too much – if the man started to suspect that the documents he'd been handed were indeed faked – Harry was finished. The judge would find the way to ensure that she'd end in jail for decades. The doctor couldn't do that to her. She'd forced his hand – he could only play along for the moment.

And as if things weren't complicated enough, that was the moment Sherlock chose to pop out of nowhere. "Love, you should have waited for me!" she chided, her voice half an octave higher than her usual. "Why don't you introduce me?" How did she manage such a grating warble was a mystery. And if it wasn't enough, Mrs. Hudson was trotting quietly behind her.

"Yeah, introduce us, Jimmy," Charles piped up, openly leering at her.

"Everyone, this is my fiancée, Lucy Warriner," John – James – told sternly, glaring at cousin Charles. He put a proprietary hand around Sherlock's waist, and she purred softly. Of course, he could have used her true name – she wasn't as famous as The detective John Watson (which was absolutely unfair, if you asked him) – but better safe than sorry.

"And this is my mother, Martha," 'Lucy' added, smiling. "So these are your 'relatives', uh, Jimmykins?" she queried airily, reading the situation at a glance. She didn't actually make air quotes, but she didn't doubt that John would feel them anyway.

'Jimmykins' managed not to choke at his new nickname, and proceeded to gingerly introduce everyone.

"And how much of this is ours?" Sherlock asked naively, like an awed child – a greedy one, for sure.

"I'll take over the Dukedom, so – most of whatever dad left," her partner replied, shrugging. He didn't want any of this, not anymore, and he was certain the detective couldn't care less. Was she trying to determine the situation, make him hated, something else…or maybe all three?

"The castle is nice – might need a bit of remodelling, though. Maybe a bit more Christian Jank-style?" 'Lucy' mused.

John had no idea who the hell this Jank fellow was, and he couldn't imagine why Sherlock even knew about castles' architects (he assumed, at least). Probably it was for a case – he should ask her; it was sure to be an interesting tale. Judging from the general shocked reaction, including quite a bit of choking, he was the only one who ignored that name though.

"You might as well say Disney style," Angus remarked, red-faced in his outrage.

"And what's wrong with that? They're going to have lots of kids, after all," Mrs. Hudson interjected, smiling seraphically.

Sherlock blushed at that, oh-so-prettily.

"What do you say, James, maybe your fiancée would like to see the park," Harry said hurriedly, hoping to defuse the situation before it became even more awkward.

Her brother latched onto that, immediately and gratefully. "Yeah, yeah. We'll see each other at dinner, everyone, yes? After the flight, I need to stretch my legs a bit."

"Fine," his supposed cousins agreed, with various shades of glaring. Even Frankland nodded. There was no rush for him.

Once they were alone in a corner of the vast park, Harry hissed, "Why don't you go s bit further, _James_. Let me and Lucy have a bit of a girls' chat."

He sighed, certain that was a horrible, horrible idea, but complied. He would explain everything to Sherlock later. She loved him – hopefully she'd believe him.

"Sherlock Holmes, I suppose," Harry said, her voice very soft despite their seclusion, but with a harsh hedge.

"You're correct, Harriet Sacker," the sleuth replied, just as softly but definitely smug.

"What the hell? How did you figure that out? We don't even look like each other," Harry grumbled. Of course she'd used an alias for this venture. Even assuming Mish had told her about his adoptive sister, what had betrayed her?

"I know him," Sherlock boasted, grinning. "And he told me everything about his past. It was a simple thing determining who you were among his past associates – the fact that he mentioned you in his excuse to leave, since you naturally were on his mind, did help," she admitted, smirking.

"I'll give you a warning, sister. He'll get bored. Soon. he's in love with being in love, always has been, but never with the actual girl of the day. He moves on, seeking the next prey of his charms, as soon as you believe you are 'comfortably settled'. I'll give you three months – and only because I recognise that you are bloody brilliant," Harry admonished, shaking her head.

"I'll take the risk," the detective declared, defiant. It was out of character for her. She used to protect her own feelings so viciously, and always keep people at a distance rather than risk getting hurt. But she trusted John – Hamish – James or however else he chose to call himself.

In that moment, they heard an alarmed shout from him – who, to give them the requested privacy, had gone a bit further, beyond a hedge – and both young women ran instinctively forward. They found their loved one legs in the air in a flowerbed.

"Incredible!" he yelled, righting himself. "You didn't tell me we have a murderous ghost, Harry!"

"A ghost?" Sherlock enquired, looking entirely too excited for it to be decent – not that anyone cared.

"There was a – a bloody medieval knight with a spear. He ran that way when he heard you coming. I barely managed not to be run through," the doctor explained, still a bit shocked from the experience.

"A ghost who leaves prints," the sleuth noted, starting eagerly to give chase.

"Oh yeah. I didn't tell you. Everyone will be trying to kill you for the couple of days until you officially receive the Dukedom. They'd share it all between themselves then," Harry explained, as if it was no big deal.

"Then why didn't they simply believe me when I said I wasn't him?" John asked, intensely baffled.

"Because the old man was a bit obsessed with finding his heir and his will is conceived so that they wouldn't be able touch a penny for twenty years unless James was found," his sister added, grinning. Very useful for them. It made everyone else willing complicit in the scam.

"Oh marvellous!" John said sarcastically. It was much better murdering him, wasn't it?

"But it is just for a few days – when you officially receive the title of Duke of Holdernesse you're safe. Because if you are killed after that your 'relatives' don't get anything unless they are in _your_ will. You only have to hold on for a short while," Harry clarified, encouraging.

"Yeah. Of course. Easy," he sighed, already starting to feel weary. Why had they ever thought it was a great idea?

"A murder attempt! And more to come! Oh, love, that's great. We're staying," Sherlock declared, still on the track of the ghost. Figures she would want to solve any case she came across. There would be no help from her in making Harry reason and bring John home asap.

Unsurprisingly, following the hoofprints of the ghost they reached the stables.

"Welcome, Sir, ladies," said an old but brawny stable hand, very politely obstructing their path, in contradiction with his words.

"Not yet a lady," Sherlock pointed out, going around him as if he didn't exist – or trying to, but still finding him on her way. She glared.

"Have you seen someone coming this way?" the supposed heir inquired kindly, thinking this would be a better course of action.

"No one, Sir," the man replied simply.

"Are you lying, blind or were you asleep?" the detective spit out angrily.

"I beg your pardon?" the groom uttered, his face the very picture of affronted innocence.

"These hoofprints – they lead here," she snapped, pointing them out to his attention.

"Of course they do. These are the stables," the man countered, not adding a 'lady' or 'miss' or anything anymore. Not that Sherlock wanted that.

Harry couldn't help it – she snickered. Her brother glared at her – this was not the moment. Sherlock was in fire with the investigation, and would not appreciate any giggling at a crime scene she didn't take part in.

"They are _very_ fresh," the sleuth objected, her voice practically a growl.

"Yesterday's, in fact," the stable hand boldly stated, "we always make the horses exercise daily."

"We've seen it coming this way – the horse, and his rider," John said sternly. Enough of this nonsense.

"I don't know what to say, Sir. I swear, no one has come this way," the man insisted, following Sherlock – who'd finally managed to get past him to snoop around – and starting to heap straw in a corner with a pitchfork.

After a few moments, the consulting detective huffed, "I'd say we have all the data we can gain here – we might as well go back." Unsurprisingly, both siblings followed her obediently.

Mrs. Hudson welcomed them back at the castle. "Your relatives are so nice, Jim, dear," she cooed. And nice of her to remember John's new alias. "We had a great fun chatting – we swapped so many stories. Do you know, Lucy, love, they're not the only heirs. An equal part of it once Jim's share is taken out will go to the local Beekepers' society. It seems that the old Duke was very worried about the bees' dwindling numbers, and what it means for the environment and so on. Such a wise man, he was. " She remembered Sherlock's new name, too. Oh well. She'd known her longer than her 'fiancé' had, and the detective had undoubtedly gone undercover during that time.

"Really mom? How interesting. Now that you mentioned bees I really want to taste some honey, though," 'Lucy' remarked airily.

"Well, you're in luck, my dear," cousin Gwen replied amiably, "it's almost dinner time. There'll be dessert, and I have specifically requested honey orange upside down cake. I'm quite fond of it myself – it's delicious, I assure you."

"Oh, good," the sleuth replied, as if cake was all that interested her at the moment (and frankly, her appreciation sounded almost obscene – she'd insist she'd copied Mycroft then).

"And you'll have a special surprise, Jimmy," Charles said, winking at him.

John (or Mish if you want, but he'd really rather be called John) managed to valiantly mask his apprehension. Any surprise could only bring more trouble than it was worth.

He was right, of course. The surprise – coming after a dinner that he was too anxious to really taste, though he was sure it must have been great – was nothing good. Another cooing, middle aged woman, on the portly side, exclaiming, "My Jimmy! Do you remember 'not-mama Viv'? You were so cute." and then hugging him abruptly.

"We found your old nanny, Jim," Angus declared, looking smug.

"Well, to be honest she found us," Gwen pointed out, smiling.

Oh fuck. Bloody buggering fuck. He wouldn't be able to deceive her. Harry's scam would come to light, and the judge would have her hide. Maybe even Sherlock's and Mrs. Hudson's hides, if he didn't come up with something pronto (he didn't care about himself – never had). So sorry, Harry. Sorry, everyone. He gingerly hugged the woman back, murmuring a vague assent.

"Do you remember Shadow?" the nanny was querying, horribly cheerful.

"Yeah," 'Jim' replied, secretly terrified, "course I do. Dear old Shadow! How could I forget it?" What the hell was that? A cat? A dog?

"Your favourite cock-horse. You'd ride it to new conquests every day. Such an imagination you've always had!" the old woman explained fondly. She couldn't be fooled, could she? And if she was… he'd surely slip anytime now.

"And look what I've got there!" Viv declared, revealing a somehow battered teddy bear with a white jumper reading, in red bold letters, 'Bletchley Park'. "How did you call him?" she queried, as if her memory didn't serve her well anymore.

This was going to be his downfall, surely. "Alan?" the supposed heir guessed, internally praying, "Please, let it be Turing. Let it be Turing, please!" Hopefully the others would interpret his interrogative tone as, 'Is it really my old toy?' and not as, 'I have no idea what I am saying!'

"Right! Alan! You can have him back. I'm sure he missed you," the nanny said, thrusting the old toy in her old charge (at least theoretically)'s hands.

"How cute!" Sherlock, in her dizzy Lucy persona, remarked, taking it from John's hands. She made a mental note to self to ask Harry later about her lover's true favourite childhood toys after the conclusion of this case.

Actually, she might get to discover it sooner rather than later, because Harry tugged her away from the table and claimed that they needed a bit of 'girl talk'. Gwen perked up and made to join them, but Mrs. Hudson asked her something inconsequential about the history of the castle and effectively stopped her. Sherlock dropped the toy bear back on John's lap and kissed him on the cheek before following his sister out.

Harry guided her to a bedroom and turned on the radio in there – rather loudly. There'd be no overhearing them, casual or otherwise. Clever Harry. "You can't keep him, you know," she declared, smirking.

"Are you so sure?" the sleuth replied sternly. She'd always been afraid that such a thing might happen, but John seemed so in love – but he'd lied to her – but…so many contrasting buts. She needed to trust John.

"Oh, I am sure. I know my brother. He might not seem like it, but he gets bored easily. He conquers and moves on. New girl, new identity, new playacting. Though he hasn't left you yet, so I suppose you're doing something right. But even should you bring him back home with you now, a few weeks tops and he'll disappear. Unless…" the con woman trailed off, a challenging glint in her eyes.

"Unless?" the detective echoed in a soft breath, despite her hate of repetition.

"You're a good actress, I have to give you that. Apt to play a role making things up on the spot, and that's useful. And you have sustained – created – a lie yourself, and for so long, too. I know everything about you," Harry praised, with a smirk.

"I highly doubt that," Sherlock cut in, grumbling.

"If you want to keep Mish, follow him. You might be good associates," the hustler stated, ignoring her protest.

"We are already good associates," the world's only consulting detective pointed out flatly, raising an eyebrow that clearly asked, 'Are you stupid?' though wordlessly.

"In your field. You need not to smother Mish. He won't appreciate you trying to keep him chained, and I really think you might become a good addition to the team. Follow him on his vocation – it really is one, even if he discovered it rather late – and he won't leave you behind. We might be great, all three of us," Harry said, grinning invitingly.

"I could be a great criminal," the detective agreed, and the other woman smiled even more. "But I think you'll find that a detective's life has enough thrills in it for your brother not to want to change it," she added, defiant.

The con woman shrugged. "Consider it a standing offer. Especially when Mish will get tired of John Watson and disappear on you again. Come to me, and I'll find him back for you – so you can show him you're willing to let him lead you in your new career," she said, handing her a calling card.

"I will, thanks," Sherlock replied, putting it in her purse. Because she knew that she was taken enough with one John Watson that, should he flee, she very much risked throwing her own career down into the sewer to – pathetically, she realised that – try to get him back, just the way his sister had suggested. She needed to trust him not to force her to do that, though. He loved her – loved what they did together. Didn't he? It couldn't be entirely an act. Nobody was _that_ good.

John joined them then. "Harry? What are you doing in our bedroom? Not seducing my girlfriend again, are you?" he queried, raising an eyebrow.

"That was the one time, Mish," his sister replied, sighing exasperatedly. "And no, I'm not. I'm giving her good suggestions, actually."

"Well, give us a bit of privacy, will you? We'd love to retire – and maybe spend the next few hours enjoying not enduring murder attempts," he huffed, shooing her away.

"Not that we wouldn't enjoy a murder attempt," Sherlock piped up, with a smile.

"Yeah, well – good night. Sleep as little as you can!" Harry said, with a cheeky wink at her brother.

She'd just left when someone knocked – they almost thought she'd forgotten something. But no, it was Charles, holding a couple of glasses. "Thought you'd enjoy a night cap, Jim. I always have one."

"Undoubtedly," the sleuth remarked, with a judgemental look.

"Thank you so much, Charlie. Lovely idea. Good night," the pretend heir countered instead, elbowing her lightly, taking the glasses and laying them on a table. Cousin Charles went, and he was just kissing his fiancé (might have to really ask her to marry him), when another knock interrupted them.

This time it was Angus, with glasses of his own for them. "This was uncle's favourite port. He never went to sleep without one last sip. Said it made wonders for his rest – he'd drink it, and not open his eyes until next morning. I thought you might like it too," he explained.

"How thoughtful of you," 'Jim' thanked between gritted teeth, while his beloved openly glowered at being interrupted. The liquor joined its equal on the table.

John tried to get back to the kissing, but the detective stopped him. "It's not ended yet," she said. "Might as well wait it out."

"Do you think?" he queried, not wanting to believe that.

But sure enough, only some moments later Gwen knocked. At least she was more original. On a tray, she brought warm milk and chocolate biscuits. "It's the best way to end a day – our cook's special recipe chocolate biscuits. Maybe they'll bring up some sweet memories," she murmured.

"I'm sure they will. Thank you so much, Gwen. But you're limping! I have a bit of a medical training – maybe I should have a look at it," he offered kindly.

"Oh, thank you. I went for a bit of a ride this morning and that damned horse kicked me. I'm afraid I'm not a true Amazon," she countered, laughing throatily and sitting on the bed for John to examine her with more ease.

"I should say, since you didn't undergo mastectomy," Sherlock sneered.

"What?" Gwen queried, blinking owlishly.

"Never mind… I don't think that's very bad. I do suggest a massage," he diagnosed. When it seemed that Gwen was going to get more comfortable and take that as an offer to perform one himself, ignoring his fiancée[U1] 's glaring, he quickly added, "Or a long, warm bath. Actually, that might relax you better."

"Oh," she uttered, clearly a bit disappointed, but left.

"And now…" he said, turning to his beloved with the full intention to get back to at the very least some snogging (well, hopefully more). She nodded, smiling invitingly at him, but just then another knock at the door frustrated them. Who the hell was it?

Nanny Viv, still holding that thrice-damned toy bear, and chiding him – the nerve of the woman! "You left Alan behind, Jimmy! He was going to be so lonely after he finally found you back."

"Sorry nanny. Thank you, but…well, I'm a bit grown up for toys," he remarked pointedly.

"You're never too much grown up for sweet memories," the old woman declared, placing it herself on the bed, sitting among the two pillows, and then leaving with a soft, "Sweet dreams, Jimmy," and yet all the airs of a queen.

She'd just left when they started hearing an ominous ticking sound. "It can't be…can it?" John wondered. "I mean, the thing wasn't doing this in the dining hall…"

"It doesn't mean that someone didn't add an explosive afterwards. If it was abandoned, anyone could have…" Sherlock pointed out, frowning at the apparently innocuous toy.

"Right. I was a soldier. I know how to deal with explosive. You just have to be…delicate…" he uttered, gently getting on the bed and trying to feel under the padding a switch, or wires, or anything…when he couldn't, he started hurriedly ripping the poor bear apart, but still without success.

It was nothing more than a jolt seen out of the corner of her eyes that made the sleuth look upwards…and that lead to her leaping to move John out of the bed. The poor Alan had been innocent. The ticking had to be the mechanism who'd first lowered the heavy chandelier and then sent it crashing onto the bed (and on John if he'd been there).

"We might still find the one responsible! Come on, love!" she said, running out of the room. They crossed a startled servant of some sort, clearly not used to running into these corridors, and gleaned from him directions to the attic in the above storey, as the mechanism had to be located there.

The place was empty – it was too much to hope that their murderer would have lingered – but they hadn't met anyone on their way…so that meant to explore alternative exits. John found a trapdoor and used it without a second thought…only to end in Gwen's bathroom. Where Gwen was taking the suggested hot bath. Well, that might solve the question of their murderer – or maybe not. She certainly looked naked in there, would she have been quick enough to disrobe while they were hot in pursuit? Or would she have maneuvered the mechanism stark naked?

"Don't bother to knock," she said, with a cheeky grin. She didn't seem very embarrassed.

"I was just…" he stammered.

"Exploring. We couldn't sleep and decided to go explore. Of course, we had no idea we'd end here – sorry," the detective concluded for him. Cousin Gwen glared noticing her presence at 'Jim' 's heel.

"Yeah. Sorry. Of course, we'll just…leave you to it…" the pretend heir uttered, only to be interrupted by someone's scream.

They left the room running, leaving a scared Gwen to her bath, only to find a commotion in front of their own bedroom. It wasn't like they left it. There was a body on the floor, face contorted in a tortured grimace, a now-empty tumbler rolled from his hand. Angus. "I'm afraid he's dead, Your Grace," a butler (what was even the butler doing here? did the others call him to dispose of the body?) said oh-so-politely.

"Well, why would he poison my liquor and then drink it himself? Solve me this, Lucy," 'Jim' asked, baffled.

"Maybe he's not the one who poisoned the drink. Both Angus' and Charles' offerings were rather similar-looking. Or maybe a third party poisoned all the drinks while we were in search of the perpetrator of the earlier attempt," she replied, shrugging.

"There's no need for a third party," Harry – of course she'd run here too – declared loudly. "All the attempts to his grace – Charles, you're the one behind all this!" She pointed at him like a vengeful fury. She was more protective of her brother than Sherlock would have deemed her.

"What? That's absurd!" the accused man yelled.

"Do you have any proof?" the judge – of course he'd hastened there too, as much as a man of his age and dignity could hasten, at least – queried sternly, as if he were sitting in court.

"This morning, his grace was attacked by a 'ghost' dressed up like a medieval knight, actually riding one of the horses from the stables – and we all know who has a penchant for horses," Harry stated, glowering.

"That's ridiculous! We all know how to ride – it doesn't implicate me more than it implicates judge Frankland here!" Charles objected, taking a threatening step forward.

His accuser's look clearly said, "Bring it on, you weakling!" Harry actually smiled at him. Sherlock had always thought that John's angry, you-better-run-now smile was an effect of his army service, but it seems brother and sister share the trait. "And you all heard Lucy – it must have been the drink Charles brought his grace who was poisoned!" Harry insisted.

"You're all mad! I'll press charges – press charges, I tell you! This is slander!" the young man shouted.

"And you studied Engineering, that trick with the mechanism of the chandelier would be a piece of cake for you!" Harry concluded. She might as well utter a triumphant 'ah!' given her smug expression.

"I was going to press charges, but I'm seriously considering forgetting you're supposed to be a woman first," Charles growled, closing his fists.

At which point John – with the ease no doubt born from a long practice – took a step forward himself, saying placatingly, "Now, now, Charlie, let's all take a deep breath. She might have spoken hastily, but we're all gentlemen here, aren't we?" In the meantime, he'd manoeuvred himself between the incensed man and his sister, who had moved a couple of steps further afar and to the left, leaving a space for him to act if needed. He wasn't threatening at all, but Sherlock did not doubt that he would easily subdue 'little cousin' if he didn't relent. She was half-tempted to egg them on, because John fighting was always a sight, but that'd be unappreciated.

"You know what, fuck off, Your Grace!" Charles grumbled, walking past John and not-so-lightly shouldering him. That put him on the way to where John had originally stood – and that was the reason an arrow that had (casually? accidentally? Oh, who were they fooling) been shot by a crossbow laying on the mantle of a hearth like some sort of trophy (which sort of people put hearts in their corridors?) pierced him. In the heart. The arrowhead came out from Charles' back, and he died with a stunned expression on his face and a tiny mewl.

"I think we can safely say he was innocent," judge Frankland pronounced, looking with obvious blame at Harry.

"I…guess," she replied, still a bit shocked. "But this solves the case, doesn't it? Angus is dead, Charlie's dead – the only suspect left alive is Gwen. And her share gets bigger with each co-heir she kills. Let's go get her!"

"Let's not be hasty once again," Sherlock interjected. "The Beekepers association is as invested in this as any of Jimmykins' relatives were – and that crossbow was rigged with a timer, we don't have any solid evidence."

"Oh, come on! Do you really think a few old farmers would start a murderous spree?" Harry huffed with contempt.

"Let's. Not. Be. Hasty. Lucy's right," His Grace (Sherlock was so going to tease him about it for months!) seconded, voice stern.

"I think we'll look into the association, won't we?" the sleuth purred.

"Of course, love. It'll be a fun way to spend the night," John agreed, grinning. "Oh, by the way, Martha – my nanny hasn't come around despite the ruckus. Will you check she's not incurred in any accident of her own? I'm a tiny bit worried."

"Obviously, my dear. Do not worry – I'll take care of her," Mrs. Hudson assured, with a maternal smile.

"Oh fine – I'm the only sensible person. I'll deal with Gwen on my own," Harry huffed.

"Please, promise me – tomorrow. Let us have the rest of this night to investigate," John pleaded. He so didn't need to deal with his sister now.

"Oh, fine," she agreed, with a shrug.

The group split, and Mrs. Hudson – as she promised – went to check on nanny Viv, armed with chamomile tea she obtained in the kitchen.

The other woman looked fine – but she was wide-eyed and slightly trembling. "My Jimmy! What happened to my Jimmy? I heard –" she lamented.

"Now, now, my dear, don't worry. I've brought you a bit of chamomile – is it fine? Or do you need something stronger? You seem awfully anxious," Mrs. Hudson reassured, with the ease of long experience.

"I need to know about Jimmy! Where's Jimmy?" the other woman insisted, still distraught-looking.

"He's fine, I promise. I told him I'll look over you. Won't you take a sip?" Mrs. Hudson comforted her.

"I will – if you tell me everything," the nanny conceded.

"Oh dear…" Mrs. Hudson sighed.

John and Sherlock, in the meantime, went to the (now closed, given the antelucan hour) location of the Beekepers' Association. A shared look, and John hurriedly picked the lock. "I should have named you Ruth," he commented offhandedly.

"Why?" the sleuth queried, curious.

"Because there's a chance that I could quote Fried Green Tomatoes to you before the case is over. 'Ruth, there's some bee person here to see you'," her lover explained.

"You and your movie obsession," she groaned, without heat, while she checked the records of the association.

"Found anything?" he queried.

"Nothing special, just a change of President year and half ago – _but_ the new President joined the association three years ago, at the same time they were notified of the Duke's will. Apparently because she finally became a widow and so she didn't need to deal with her misanthrope husband's opposition to joining any association, but the coincidence in timing is a bit too close for my tastes," the detective recounted, speed-reading through the documents.

"Well, who's the new president?" John asked, raising an eyebrow.

"One Vivian Langridge," Sherlock read aloud.

"Oh fuck…" the doctor swore earnestly.

"Nanny Viv!" they declared together, aghast.

"But she'll need an accomplice – she can't be the ghost knight," John points out.

"What if she's not a widow, after all? She was the Duke's son's nanny – who more at hand than the wife of one of the servants?" the sleuth hypothesizes, on the way back – they need to get to Mrs. Hudson!

"Right, but which one?" her lover asks.

"Who was there when we followed the ghost knight? I bet on the stable man. He _was_ brawny."

Sherlock was – as usual – always right. Mrs. Hudson – despite her numerous talents – had been caught off guard by the apparently harmless Nanny Viv. The woman – and her accomplice – had rounded up her, Gwen and Harry and, with the considerable cogency of a gun, led them outside, to a potting shed. On the way, Mrs. Hudson managed to make the both of them admit to their crimes – all of it, poisoning, crossbow-rigging, everything – but she doubted she'd ever be useful as witness for the prosecution.

The shed contained a menacing wood chipper. "Let's get on with it – I want it all already ended by the time my dear Jimmy comes back home! Start with her!" Vivian said, pointing at Harry.

Well, it wasn't the first time someone tried to bully Harriet, and she knew how to get herself out of a pinch. She 'accidentally' stepped on a rake, sending it hitting her captor's arm, which allowed her to twist free – and with another couple of moves (which no referee would judge loyal) managed to make the gun fly out of the man's hand. "Run!" she screamed, but vainly, because all the others dived to search for the gun in the straw.

The burly man had been enraged, though, and he managed to shove Harry head first into the chipper. That was going to leave a huge bump – assuming he didn't manage to push her into the infernal machinery.

Despite her fighting, he would have probably done so, but Sherlock and John had arrived to the rescue, and her brother jumped on the assailant, taking him off her and then proceeding to dislocate both the man's arms for good measure. The former army doctor dumped his adversary in a moaning mess and went to check on Harry, who'd slumped a few paces from the goddamned chipper. "You fine? Harry, please. Speak to me," he queried.

"Fine," she replied, her voice higher than her usual. "Thanks, Mish," she whispered. "I owe you one."

In the meantime, the hunt for the gun had been won by Nanny Viv, who covered the other two with the weapon. She hadn't calculated Sherlock's intervention, though. With a cloth hose wielded as a whip, the sleuth managed to make the criminal drop the gun – and with another hit from the hose, she sent the weapon flying and then falling at the feet of the group formed by John and Harry. The former arm doctor took it automatically, and a simple gesture was enough to persuade Nanny Viv to kneel in the straw. The one who holds the gun is always right, after all.

Judge Frankland arrived, papers in hand. "His grace? What is happening here? The investiture is in ten minutes," he pointed out sternly.

"For the last time, judge, I'm not the heir of the old Duke," John sighed, his gun not wavering. The last thing he needed was the criminals trying something again.

"I don't know why you insist with this nonsense – I have poured over the documents, and there's absolutely no doubt possible," the old man chided, frowning.

'You doctored these papers admirably, didn't you?" John asked her sister with only a look.

She gave him a small smile. She didn't do things halfway. He wouldn't throw her to Frankland, would he? The judge was worse than metaphorical wolves.

John smiled back. "Without these papers, there's no proof for my claim to the dukedom, is there?" he queried conversationally.

"Well, no, but they're plenty enough," Frankland replied, uncomprehending.

"Then, if you please…" the doctor took the papers from the unresisting judge's hand…and fed them to the chipper.

The old man looked at him in shock. Harry groaned aloud. All that hard work, wasted! What had Mish been _thinking_? Her brother offered her only a small apologetic smile and a pat on the shoulder.

Later, criminals consigned to the local police, John, carrying his and Sherlock's bags, found Harry loitering in the hall. She smirked at him. "You've become more high-maintenance since the last time, Mish," she joked.

"Harry, we need to talk," he stated seriously.

"Later, Luckwearer," she said, waving away his worries and using the childhood nickname.

"No, _now_ , Harry," he insisted, holding a ticket to her. "Take this back – I'm not coming to France with you."

"You aren't? Why? I mean, you've already had your little detective, haven't you?" his sister queried, baffled.

"I have. And this one, I want to _keep_ , Harry, She's the one. I'm reformed – well, we still regularly break and enter, so maybe not much," he laughed "anyway, I'm going back to New York with Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson. But you'll always be my favourite sister, and I'll be there for you if you're ever in trouble. And Sherlock will, too."

"I'll what?" the sleuth asked, entering the hall. "Our cab's here, John – you coming?"

"You'll make him happy," Harry answered, though it sounded more like an order. "And if you two don't invite me to your wedding, I'm going to haunt you."

The consulting detective blushed, and she looked so delectable John couldn't help but kiss her immediately. "Oh, we will," he assured afterwards. "Come on, now. We don't want to make the cab wait."

Gwen entered the hall immediately after, and found Harry still brandishing the ticket and misty-eyed. "Everything fine, my dear?" she queried softly. After Harry had fought so bravely and saved them (with a bit of help, fine, but not-Jimmy really hadn't answered to her flirting and she knew how to take a hint) she admired the other woman. If she were honest, she had developed quite a bit of an instant crush on her. (So she was bi. Problem?)

"Fine, fine – it's just…they grow up so fast," Harry sighed.

"Oh well. But now's not the moment to be blue. You have a ticket for Nice. You can go and party! French Riviera!" Gwen cheered her up.

"Actually, that's an extra ticket. I've been stood up. How do you feel about making me company there? I promise to make you dance – and who knows, maybe we'll find the actual Jim Holdernesse there," Harry proposed, winking at the other woman.

"With such an invitation, how can I refuse?" Gwen grinned.


End file.
